UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


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THE     DOC 
RECREATION 

TOR'S 
SERIES 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 

General  Editor 
**&*- 

VOLUME    S 

EVEN 

cofffr/effr  /aao  W»WOOO*CO^NEK  YORK. 


EP 

THE      N   i 

THE     PATIENT 


BEFORE   THE   O. 


fA  TION 


THE  SAALF 
NEW  YORK 


THE    INN 
OF    REST 

* 

;  > 

•,.'  I  ',,' 

,  ». 

,  , 

DIVERS   EPISODES      ,,'• 

, 

:  :;•; 

IN    HUbrllAL   Lire       >,>, 
RELATIVE     TO 
THE     DO  CTO  R 
THE      NURSE 
THE     PAT  I  E  N  T 

Edited  *r 

SbelOon  £.  Smee 

\ 

> 

1905 

THE  SAALFIELD  PUBLISHING  CO. 

NEW  YORK      AKRON,  O.       CHICAGO 

COPYRIGHT,  1905, 

BY 
THE  SAALFIELD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


*«D«  or 

THE    WERNER    COMPANY 
AKRON,    OHIO 


CONTENTS 


The  Quiet  Inn 

Frederick  Langbridgo 

The  Invalid's  World 

A.  B.  Ward 

The  Gibson  Play 

Marguerite  Merrlngton 

In  a  Hospital 

Edgar  Fawcett 

In  a  Great  Town  Hospital      -  ...  ,      - 

F.P.Verney 

The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain    - 

Elizabeth  G.  Jordan 

Nurses  a  la  Mode    - 

Eliza  Priestley 

Inner  Life  of  a  Hospital 
Nurse  Miriam's  Call 

Adelaide  C.  G.  Sim 

Half-an-Hour's  Chat  with  a  Hospital  Nurse  - 

The  Rev.  Algernon  C.  E.  Thorold,  M.  A. 

The  Hospital  Mistletoe 

Joseph  Hatton 

Pre-Christian  Dispensaries  and  Hospitals 
Nurse  and  Doctor 

Anna  H.  Drury 

Hospital  Scenes  and  Persons 

Walt  Whitman 

Nursing  as  a  Profession 

Isabel  Hampton  Robb 

The  Red  Cross  Nurse     - 

J.E.V.Coofci 

The  Humors  of  Hospital  Life 


PAGE 

7 
9 

43 

63 

65 

83 

99 

117 

145 

157 

167 

175 

203 

227 

237 

251 

253 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FAGS 

BEFORE  THE  OPERATION     ....     Frontispiece 

LANNEC ,82 

PENEL  AT  LA  SALPETRIERE         ....         190 
PARE  250 


PREFACE 


The  editor  begs  to  acknowledge  many  courtesies  ex- 
tended by  various  trained  nurses,  physicians,  editors, 
authors,  and  publishers  in  his  preparation  of  THE  INN  OF 
REST  for  publication.  It  has  been  his  aim  to  make  this 
compilation  a  worthy  companion  to  the  other  excellent 
volumes  comprising  THE  DOCTOR'S  RECREATION  SERIES. 
A  number  of  the  selections  are  original  in  this  work. 

Copyright  privileges  have  been  extended  by  the  Rev. 
Frederick  Langbridge,  A.  B.  Ward,  M.  D.,  The  Century 
Company,  Curtis  Publishing  Company,  Life  Publishing 
Company,  Marguerite  Merrington,  Charles  Dana  Gibson, 
Edgar  Fawcett,  Elizabeth  G.  Jordon,  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Isabel  Hampton  Robb. 

PORTER  DAVIES,  M.  D. 


THE  QUIET  INN 

By  Fredtrick  Langbridg* 
(Ons  of  the  meanings  of  the  word  HOSPITAL  is  a  guest-housa  or  inn.) 


Where,  'neath  its  ancient  archway,  dark  and  slow, 

Creeps  the  Canal  to  the  broad  river's  flow, 

The  clank  of  cranes,  the  song  the  ship-boy  sings, 

And  the  bright  snow  and  dazzle  of  swift  wings, 

Back  from  the  busy  pavement  but  a  pace, 

Who  will  may  enter  a  still  cloistral  place. 

A  no-man's  land,  midway  'twixt  life  and  death, 

Where  the  world's  schemes  are  blurr'd  to  misty  breath; 

Where  the  near  noises  to  the  heart  are  far, 

And  the  clock  stands,  and  all  things  drowsy  are. 

This  is  the  inn  that  turneth  none  away, 

Where  all  are  welcome,  though  but  few  can  pay; 

Where  no  man  rattles  dice  or  calls  for  ale, 

But  the  guests'  eyes  are  dull  and  their  cheeks  pale; 

Where  lamps  burn  late  and  all  lie  long  abed; 

Where  chamber  maids,  by  sleep  unvisited 

Move  with  so  pure  a  pity  in  their  eyes, 

And  stir  their  hands  in  so  sweet  ministries, 

That  many  a  one  has  fancied  in  the  gloom 

Angels  did  go  about  the  hushful  room. 

This  is  the  inn  whence  now  and  then  a  guest 
Departs  with  sealed  eyes  and  hands  at  rest: 
A  guest  whose  score  is  quit,  and  who  now  goes 
To  straiter  bed  but  a  more  wide  repose. 

But  commonly  the  caller  turns  him  back 

To  the  old  work  and  life's  familiar  track, 

Heal'd  of  his  hurt,  and  strong  and  sound  and  whole, 

Better'd  and  braced  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  pray,  forget  not,  by  his  bed  of  pain 
One  sat — and  kneel'd — and  words  his  heart  did  gain, 
So  rich  and  sweet,  that  through  the  dinning  day 
Their  perfume  clings  and  *will  not  so  away. 


But  come  on  tip-toe — prithee,  come  apart! 
Come  with  a  tear-bright  smile  upon  your  heart. 
Enter  a  room  where  'neath  each  coverlid 
A  drooping  human  blossom  lies  half-hid; 
Where  by  the  medicine-bottles'  grim  array, 
Quaint  toys  are  ranged  upon  a  little  tray; 
Where  bleat  mild  lambs,  miraculously  white, 
And  inch-high  soldiers  charge  for  King  and  Right, 
And  rosy  dolls,  that  tiny  mothers  pet, 
Make  the  pale  cheeks  that  press  them  paler  yet. 

Ah,  on  those  boards,  what  time  the  watchman  calls, 

Soft  as  a  dream,  I  think,  a  footstep  falls, 

And  on  the  head,  its  clustering  ringlets  shorn, 

That  tosses,  tosses,  tosses,  night  and  morn, 

Is  laid  a  touch  so  magically  kind, 

That  straight  it  wins  the  rest  it  could  not  find, 

And  the  large  wistful  eyes  like  daisies  close 

In  the  long  lull  of  beautiful  repose. 

And  by  this  cot,  where — scarce  of  human  strain — 
The  shell-slight  fingers  pick  the  counterpane, 
Gently  He  bends,  and  straightway  o'er  the  face 
There  grows  a  holier  calm,  a  tenderer  grace, 
A  brooding  peace,  ineffable  and  vast;. 
Rest,  rest,  the  perfect  rest,  has  come  at  last. 
Who  is  it  steps  so  soft?  that  One  who  said, 
Laying  His  hands  upon  the  baby-head, 
And  smiling  down  exceeding  tenderly — 
"Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  to  Me." 

Ah,  friends!  while  sickness  ever  lies  in  wait 
To  scale  the  wall,  or  burst  the  fragile  gate; 
While  peril  strikes  in  every  random  hoof, 
Pants  from  each  funnel,  hangs  from  every  roof, 
Lives  in  the  summer's  dust,  the  winter's  rain, 
And  shifts  forever  with  the  shifting  vane; 
While  every  vital  breath  may  prove  a  claim 
To  bear  not  Life's  but  her  dark  brother's  name — 
While  man's  frail  bloom  is  to  the  flowers  akin — 
How  should  we  fare  without  our  Quiet  Inn? 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD 

By  A.  B.  Ward 


I. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

|HEN  I  consider  what  the  education  of  a  doc- 
tor entails,  what  endless  study  and  investiga- 
tion, what  patient  labor;  when  I  reflect  upon 
the  continual  risks  that  he  must  take,  the  con- 
tinual self-control  that  he  must  have,  balanced  by  con- 
tinual compassion ;  when  I  remember  how  he  is  ever  con- 
tending in  a  face-to-face  and  hand-to-hand  encounter 
with  disease  and  death;  I  think  that  he  should  be  an  in- 
dustrious and  thoughtful,  a  brave  and  noble  gentleman. 
To  the  invalid  he  is  more.  He  is  the  master-mechanic  of 
what  may  be  a  very  troublesome  machine.  He  is  the 
autocrat  of  the  table  and  of  the  lodging,  of  raiment  and 
of  exercise.  His  advent  is  the  event  of  the  day.  His  ut- 
terances are  oracular,  his  nod  Olympian.  His  learning  is 
boundless,  his  wit  irresistible,  his  goodness  not  to  be 
disputed.  He  takes  the  responsibility  of  living  off  shoul- 
ders which  tremble  beneath  it,  assumes  the  battle  with 
pain,  and  fights  the  sick  man's  duel  for  him.  He  con- 
dones the  cowardice  of  shrinking  nerves  and  puts  them 
to  sleep.  He  encourages  and  stimulates  and  bolsters  the 
sufferer  into  shape  again. 

There  is  no  relationship  on  earth  like  this  between 
doctor  and  patient.  He  owns  me,  owns  at  least  this  arm 
he  set  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  these  lungs  whose  every 
wheeze  and  sputter  he  recognizes  as  I  do  the  voice  of  a 
familiar  acquaintance.  The  mother  who  bore  me  has 
not  so  intimate  a  knowledge  of  my  peculiarities,  my  pen- 
chants and  antipathies ;  no  friend,  however  faithful,  is  so 
tolerant  of  my  faults  or  has  such  an  easy  way  of  curing 
them.  He  reconciles  me  to  myself  by  a  quieting  powder, 
and  starts  me  fair  with  the  world  once  more.  He?  They, 


12  THE   INN   OF   REST 

I  should  say.  There  are  a  score  of  them,  at  least,  each 
with,  a  distinct,, personality  of  his  own  but  all  bearing 
the'  -Stamp  of  ;the'if  genial,  wide-awake  profession.  There 
is:  .G.',; 'Can;: I  not , see';  him  now,  smiling  down  into  his 
'beard!1  I  uSed  tb  wonder  if  the  smile  lingered  and  lurked 
in  that  long  grizzled  beard  of  his  after  it  left  his  lips. 
Dear  old  G.,  whimsical,  kindly,  lenient  toward  sinners 
and  cynical  toward  saints,  performing  more  than  he 
promised,  out  of  sight  before  gratitude  reached  him,  do- 
ing good  by  stealth  and  half  ashamed  when  found  out! 
His  slow  comments,  his  dry  humor,  his  quaint  sugges- 
tions were  better  than  his  pills,  and  those  were  good 
enough.  I  can  see  him  sitting  among  his  "house-patients," 
at  a  table  spread  with  Universal  Food,  cream  toast,  Pre- 
pared Wheat,  soft  eggs,  barley  coffee,  and  I  cannot  say 
what  other  limited  and  qualified  article  of  diet;  yet  his 
smile  betokens  imperturbable  benevolence,  and  his 
appetite  for  his  own  roast  beef  is  undisturbed. 
I  can  see  him,  listening  with  the  same  amused,  im- 
penetrable smile  to  complaints  which  would  nag  an- 
other to  madness.  They  did  me.  I  sprang  up  from  the 
table  when  the  Liquid  Food  bottle  began  to  circulate,  but 
not  soon  enough  to  escape  the  long  arm  of  an  Ancient 
Mariner  who  asked  me  solemnly,  "Did  you  ever  try  pre- 
pared sea  salt  for  bathing?" 

I  glanced  over  my  shoulder  at  G.  He  was  as  much 
amused  by  my  actions  as  by  those  of  the  rest  of  the 
company.  To  him  we  were,  alike,  specimens  of  the  hu- 
man problem. 

R.  would  have  been  ready  to  slay  the  humbugs  in  a 
week — keen,  swift,  sensitive  R.,  the  surgeon.  He  is  as 
impatient  as  a  thoroughbred  that  sniffs  and  paws  at  de- 
lay, striding  up  and  down,  uttering  quick  ejaculations,  off 
like  a  dart  as  soon  as  the  chance  comes.  Clean-cut  and 
fine  as  he  is  in  his  skill,  brilliant  and  sure  of  stroke  as 
the  lightning,  as  impatient  of  blunders  and  transgressed 
commands  as  he  is  of  delays,  but  always  full  of  tact,  full 
of  refinement,  full  of  tender  delicacy,  especially  toward 
little  children.  They  tell  a  pretty  story  of  him  at  the 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  13 

Children's  Hospital.  Playing  Doctor  was  the  game  and 
impersonating  the  house-staff  its  leading  feature.  "I'll 
be  Doctor  R.,"  one  urchin  was  overheard  saying,  and  he 
was  followed  by  an  indignant  chorus,  "That's  just  like 
you,  Johnny  Smith  !  You  always  take  the  best !" 

Alive  to  the  opinion  of  his  patients  is  R.  and  giving 
them  an  absorbed  interest  in  return  for  their  trust  in  him, 
lying  awake  night  after  night  in  worry  over  a  bad  case, 
carrying  it  about  with  him  under  all  the  wealth  of  non- 
sense and  speaking  fun  which  makes  him  a  tonic,  under 
all  the  hopefulness  and  animation  which  challenge  his  pa- 
tients to  show  fight  and  quit  themselves  like  men.  I 
would  rather  have  R.  to  lead  me  to  a  charge  in  the  battle 
for  health  than  any  one  I  know. 

For  a  sturdy  comrade,  working  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
day  in  and  day  out,  give  me  wiry,  plucky,  generous, 
steadfast  little  S.,  making  enthusiasm  and  mother-wit 
serve  his  lack  of  years,  deeming  no  trouble  too  great  to 
be  taken,  no  trifling  ache  small  enough  to  be  disregarded, 
head  and  heart  and  willing  hand  in  his  work.  The  chil- 
dren hail  him  as  a  playfellow.  We  old  chronics  welcome 
him  as  we  do  daylight  after  a  night  of  pain.  We  can  un- 
bosom ourselves  completely,  be  as  long  and  prosy  as 
we  please.  His  appetite  for  information  on  our  case 
seems  insatiable,  and  that  particular  case  the  most  im- 
portant in  his  book. 

And  what  more  shall  I  say?  For  the  time  would  fail 
me  to  tell  of  "Gideon  and  Barak,  of  Samson  and  Jeph- 
thah,  of  David  also  and  Samuel,"  of  the  sanguine  doc- 
tor whose  prescriptions  are  "going  to  fix  you  all  right  in 
no  time,"  of  the  brusque  doctor  who  takes  delight  in 
making  savage  remarks,  the  courtly  doctor  whose  ele- 
gance and  suavity  fairly  divert  the  patient  from  his  own 
wretched  condition,  the  entertaining  doctor  who  achieves 
a  like  miracle  by  means  of  his  newsy  yarns;  of  the  fa- 
cetious doctor  who  tosses  his  hat  on  the  bed  and  in- 
sists that  you  are  shamming,  the  boisterous  doctor  who 
fills  the  house  with  an  important  noise,  and  the  good-na- 
tured, broad-backed  old  fellow  who  is  always  saying, 


14  THE  INN  OF  REST 

"That's  it;  that's  it!" 

This  one  "tones"  up  the  system  with  iron  or  quinine, 
that  one  "quiets"  it  with  massage,  and  still  another 
"feeds"  it  with  malt  and  cod-liver  oil.  Here  you  find  one 
with  such  a  transcendent  faith  in  Nature  that  he  is  will- 
ing to  let  her  "take  her  course" ;  there,  another,  with  cor- 
responding trust  in  a  "change  of  scene,"  who  sends  you 
from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea- 
shore and  back  again. 

But  in  spite  of  their  hobbies,  they're  all  hearty,  whole- 
souled  gentlemen ;  and  it  is  a  comfort  even  to  have  them 
take  your  pulse  and  temperature,  they  do  it  so  cheerily 
and  as  if  they  were  determined  to  work  their  best  in 
helping  you  out  of  your  troubles.  Quacks  there  may  be, 
"going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth  and  walking  up  and  down 
in  it,"  but  it  has  never  been  my  fortune  or  misfortune  to 
meet  them.  There  I  cannot  testify. 

As  for  Homeopathy  and  Allopathy  I  must  confess  to  a 
mature,  masculine  preference  for  sound,  smacking  doses. 
I  like  to  feel  that  I  am  using  big  guns  and  plenty  of  pow- 
der. If  I  were  young  and  tender  perhaps  bird-shot 
would  have  more  effect  on  me.  However,  I  drink  to  both 
sides,  impartially,  and  wish  them  a  long  life  and  a  busy 
one !  "That'll  be  a-keeping  the  rest  of  us  down,"  sighs  my 
friend  O'Rourke.  "I  never  knew  but  one  sick  man  who  is 
well,  now.  He  was  too  poor  to  have  morelthan  one  doc- 
tor and  he  gave  him  up.  So  he  got  well."  I  don't  want 
your  opinion,  O'Rourke.  You  are  not  an  invalid,  and 
that  rules  you  out  of  this  court.  You  belong  with  the 
Hogarths  who  nail  the  doctors  on  the  wall  as  "Under- 
takers' Arms";  or  with  the  newspaper  wits  who  whet 
their  tongues  now  on  a  mother-in-law,  now  on  a  dude, 
but  oftenest  on  a  medical  man.  We  will  wait  until  in- 
digestion or  a  sprain  humbles  you  cavillers  before  we  al- 
low you  to  cast  a  vote.  It  is  only  during  the  period  of  in- 
validism  that  doctors  are  appreciated,  not  before  or  after. 
This  fact  was  noted  by  the  old  M.  D.  counseling  his 
younger  brother:  "Accipe  dum  dolet" — look  out  for  your 
fee  while  he  aches.  As  soon  as  he  is  well  his  understand- 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  15 

ing  is  darkened  and  the  importance  of  the  doctor,  along 
with  that  of  the  empty  medicine  bottles,  is  written  in  the 
past  tense.  Don't  I  think  they  are  grasping?  I  think 
they  want  their  money  when  they  have  earned  it,  but 
that  is  a  failing  common  to  so  many  of  the  human  family 
that  one  ceases  to  remark  it,  even  in  doctors.  The  par- 
simony of  the  three  professions,  Law,  Theology,  and 
Medicine,  in  selling  justice,  heaven,  and  health,  is  some- 
thing to  be  regretted,  and  is  often  resented.  But  until 
the  State  takes  sufficient  interest  in  her  children  to  en- 
dow these  professions,  I  fear  we  shall  have  to  strike  a 
bargain  for  the  care  of  our  souls  and  our  bodies.  It  may 
be  that  living  about  in  hospitals  has  given  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  see  another  side  from  that  which  you  see,  you 
who  paid  some  hundreds  of  dollars  for  a  consultation  and 
sank  half  your  fortune  in  an  apothecary's  shop;  but  so 
much  generosity  has  come  to  my  knowledge,  unostenta- 
tious giving  of  skill,  time,  and  money  on  the  part  of  these 
"grasping"  gentlemen,  that — I  cannot  agree  with  you. 

And  they  are  so  materialistic !  Granted ;  but  so  far  as 
my  experience  of  them  goes,  blood  and  bones  and  flesh 
are  decidedly  materialistic  substances,  and  I  don't  care 
to  have  mine  treated  spiritually.  If  I  had,  I  should  have 
gone  in  for  the  Faith  Cure,  or  summoned  the  ghost  of 
my  great-grandfather— an  eminently  respectable  physi- 
cian in  his  day — to  write  one  of  his  yard-long  prescrip- 
tions for  me.  How  it  would  puzzle  the  "physician's 
cooke,"  as  a  lists  of  that  time  terms  the  apothecary ! 

Just  ask  your  doctor  to  .give  you  a  -scientific  diagno- 
sis of  your  case.  The  high-sounding,  mouth-filling  titles 
will  increase  immeasurably  your  respect  for  your  own 
viscera,  notably  if  there  is  nothing  but  a  rascally  little 
biliousness  to  blame  and  he  calls  it  His  Excellency,  Gas- 
tro-duodenal  Catarrh.  So  far  from  corporeal  substance 
being  degraded,  it  is  dignified  by  proper  nomenclature 
and  plain  explanations.  Ignorance,  superstition,  distorted 
ideas  run  more  risk  of  materialism  than  science  can. 

As  to  the  tax  of  irreverence,  bless  your  heart!  You 
must  be  a  transient!  No  chronic  would  pass  so  super- 


16  THE  INN   OF  REST 

ficial  a  judgment.  The  absurdities  and  the  nonsense  with 
which  acute  sufferers  and  those  continually  in  the  pres- 
ence of  acute  suffering  fortify  themselves  and  each  other 
is  well-known  to  the  experienced.  It  is  a  sort  of  harm- 
less heat-lightning,  a  letting-off  of  the  accumulation  of 
nervous  excitement.  The  flippant,  frivolous  talk  between 
surgeon  and  assistants  over  an  etherized  patient  would 
startle  and  shock  the  sympathetic  friends,  to  whom  the 
scene  is  full  of  solemnity  and  pathos.  But  these  brave 
fellows  are  feeling  their  way  over  immeasurable  dangers, 
by  slender  paths  where  none  but  science  can  walk,  with 
the  infinite  pains  which  science  is  willing  to  take,  buoy- 
ing up  each  other's  spirits  with  fun  and  jest. 

M.  came  to  me  the  other  day  vowing  vengeance  on  Dr. 
N.  "He  shall  wait  one  while  for  his  pay,"  he  said  angrily. 
"Wasn't  the  operation  performed  all  right?"  "Yes, 
but—"  "Was  the  bill  exorbitant?"  "No,  but,  hang 
it!  he  whistled  all  through  it,"  and. the  expression  on  his 
face  showed  that  some  one  would  have  to  perform  an 
operation  upon  lacerated  sensibilities  before  M.  would 
consider  himself  a  whole  man.  "Little  Grandma,"  the 
hospital  child,  measured  N.  differently.  She  took  a  good 
look  at  him,  turning  her  wee,  wizened  face  over  her 
crooked  shoulder,  and  crying,  "Go  easy,  mister,  go  easy !" 
but  she  was  hushed  and  reassured  the  instant  she  saw 
how  tender  and  pitiful  was  the  glance  that  met  hers. 
She  trusted  him,  always,  from  that  time, — even  when  he 
whistled. 

The  doctor  who  could  not  laugh  and  make  me  laugh 
I  should  put  down  for  a  half-educated  man.  It  is  one  of 
the  duties  of  the  profession  to  hunt  for  the  material  of  a 
joke  on  every  corner.  Most  of  them  have  so  esteemed  it. 
Garth,  Rabelais,  Abernethy,  and  a  hundred  or  so  more 
too  near  to  be  named,  what  genial,  liver-shaking,  heart- 
quickening,  wit-waking  worthies  they  were  and  are !  To 
the  son  who  loves  her  best,  Nature  reveals  most  of  her 
tricks  of  workmanship.  He  knows  there  is  a  prize  in 
every  package  of  commonplace  and  sadness,  and  he  can 
find  it — not  only  the  bit  of  fun  shining  to  the  eye  of  a 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  17 

connoisseur  like  an  unset  jewel,  but  the  eccentricity,  the 
resemblance,  the  revelation,  countless  signs  and  tokens 
of  the  evanescent,  amusing,  pathetic  creatures  we  call 
human.  Heartless,  grasping,  irreverent?  The  deepest 
compassion  for  human  ails,  the  broadest  generosity  for 
human  needs,  the  highest  respect  for  all  that  is  strong 
and  pure  and  holy  in  human  lives,  I  have  seen  in  the 
men  who  come  closest  to  the  mystery  of  Life  and  the 
mystery  of  Death,  who  read  the  naked  heart  when  it 
is  too  weak  or  too  sorrowful  to  hide  its  nakedness,  who 
know  Our  best  and  our  worst,  and  are  most  of  them 
wise  enough  to  strike  the  balance.  If  they  are  cynics 
it  is  we  who  have  made  them  so.  We  are  the  books 
out  of  which  they  learn  their  lessons.  We  point  the 
argument  and  furnish  circumstantial  evidence  for  or 
against  human  frailty  and  the  worth  of  existence.  If 
they  lie  to  us,  or  withhold  the  truth  it  is  we  who  force 
them  to  it,  with  out  appetite  for  placebos,  our  demand  for 
large  promises  and  taking  titles — Sympathetic  Powders, 
Magic  Cure-alls,  The  Elixir  of  Life  and  of  Perpetual 
Youth.  They  are  gradually  educating  us  out  of  the  desire 
for  these  toys,  and  gradually,  in  consequence,  growing 
more  honest  with  us.  We  are  willing  to  pay  more  for 
skill  and  less  for  a  quart  bottle  of  strong  stuff.  The 
"stomach-brush"  would  never  flourish  in  our  day.  The 
old-time  cathartic  is  no  longer  reckoned  part  of  the 
household  equipment,  with  the  pepper-box  and  saltcel- 
lar. Physic  is  relegated  to  its  proper  place,  serving  the 
physician  and  no  longer  served  by  him.  The  practise  of 
medicine  is  less,  but  the  doctor  is  more,  much  more. 
What  medieval  miracle  eclipses  the  wonders  wrought 
by  surgery?  What  pretense  of  ancient  quackery  is  not 
more  than  fulfilled  by  the  cunning  craft  which  detects  and 
deals  with  the  subtlest  disease? 

They  are  never  satisfied,  these  zealots.  They  never 
limit  themselves  by  what  has  been,  but  are  ever  striving 
for  the  yet  unattained.  Eager  workmen  that  they  are, 
they  must  be  continually  planning  new  tools,  new 
machines,  new  devices  for  the  comfort  and  cure  of  their 


18  THE  INN  OF  REST 

patients.  As  fast  as  experience  finds  the  need,  ingenuity 
plans  the  instrument.  It  puts  a  cushioned  rest  under 
every  wounded  part,  props  and  sustains  and  strengthens 
every  weakened  part,  ministers  without  delay  and  in 
every  conceivable  fashion.  More  full  of  meaning  now  than 
when  they  were  written  are  the  words  of  Jesus,  Son 
of  Sirach :  "Honor  a  physician  with  the  honor  due  unto 
him,  for  the  uses  which  ye  may  have  of  him.*  *  *  The 
skill  of  the  physician  shall  lift  up  his  head,  and  in  the 
sight  of  great  men  he  shall  be  in  admiration." 

You  don't  think  so,  you  outsiders  who  "take  a  man  for 
all  in  all," — but  ten  to  one,  drop  the  best  part  of  him. 
You  call  this  the  rhapsody  of  an  invalid,  a  bit  of  idealiza- 
tion— though  idealization,  as  every  one  knows,  like  all 
alchemies,  depends  upon  the  presence  in  the  dross  of 
the  metal  it  seems  to  create.  I  doubt  if  the  picture  of 
these  men,  as  they  appear  to  you,  bearded  or  smooth  of 
chin,  well-dressed  or  careless,  republican  or  democrat, 
with  an  open  purse  or  dodging  the  subscription  paper, 
pewholders  or  displaying  no  outward  and  visible  sign 
of  religion,  is  any  truer  than  their  picture  as  they  appear 
to  us,  presiding  over  the  Eleusinia  of  the  operating-room, 
following  disease  into  the  very  ribs  and  lungs  of  a  man 
and  cutting  out  its  footprints,  by  the  magic  of  hidden 
stitches  sewing  death  out  and  life  in,  or  turning  a  crim- 
inal into  a  Christian.  There  is  an  idea  of  Dr.  Jackson  and 
Dr.  Morton  cherished  by  legal  records  which  represents 
them  wrangling  over  the  fame  of  inventing  etherization. 
It  sets  one  of  them  before  us  in  an  attitude  of  indolent 
self-seeking,  and  shows  the  other  conspicuous  for  self- 
seeking  of  a  more  energetic  sort.  The  sole  thought  of 
these  two,  for  the  invalid,  is  that  they  gave  to  agony 
the  priceless  gift  of  unconsciousness.  The  lips  whose 
quivering  ceased  before  the  draught  they  brought  will 
never  open  in  aught  but  blessing  of  them — whatever  fig- 
ure they  cut  in  the  courts. 

Another  chapter  might  be  written  upon  the  ultra-pro- 
fessional offices  of  the  doctor — if  it  were  safe  to  tell  of 
the  ugly  sights  his  courteous  eyes  see,  the  ugly  sounds 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  19 

to  which  he  turns  a  deaf  ear;  of  dangerous  confidences 
poured  forth  in  the  loquacity  of  illness  and  which  drop 
into  his  attentive  soul,  like  a  stone  into  a  pool,  and  leave 
no  sign ;  of  his  friendly  counsels  and  encouragements,  and 
his  management  of  officious  and  meddlesome  and  trou- 
blemaking  relatives;  of  his  shielding  the  innocent  from 
the  guilty  and  saving  the  guilty  from  getting  more  than 
their  due;  of  a  thousand  nameless  deeds  whose  review 
brings  smiles  and  sighs  of  grateful  remembrance.  By 
these  and  by  the  deeds  we  can  more  definitely  name,  let 
the  invalid  demand  his  right  to  judge  the  doctor's  life  at 
his  focus,  where  energy  and  ambition  are  centralized. 

No  one  cried  toadyism  when  the  courtier  spread  his 
cloak  before  the  queen,  or  when  the  poet  had  so  much 
to  say  about  the  divinity  that  hedges  a  king.  No  one 
would  attempt  to  argue  out  of  the  peasant  his  reverence 
for  the  priest,  by  which  the  "cloth"  of  the  latter  is  a  surer 
protection  to  him  than  even  chain-armor  might  be. 
Something  of  the  allegiance  of  courtier  and  poet  recog- 
nizing the  sway  and  charm  of  the  power  which  protects 
them,  something  of  the  devotee's  appreciation  of  a  life 
given  to  good  works,  prompts  the  applause  of  the  invalid 
offered  to  the  physician. 


20  THE  INN  OF  REST 


II. 

THE  NURSE. 

HE  Survival  of  the  Fittest  means  more  than 
length  of  days;  it  involves  the  mastery  of  the 
feeble  by  the  forceful  while  life  endures,  the 
absorbing  of  little  personalities  by  great  ones,  the 
supremacy  of  strength  in  love  and  in  war.  A  poor  look- 
out for  sick  folk  were  there  not  an  obverse  side — the  par- 
asitical dependence  of  weakness  upon  might.  Strength 
has  the  right  of  way.  He  strikes  out  bravely  with  his 
brawny  legs.  But  cunning  Weakness  sits  astride  the 
neck  of  the  conqueror  and  rides  more  safely  than  he 
could  walk.  Rare  is  the  invalid  who  goes  unattended. 
With  blandishments  and  carefuly  composed  witticisms, 
with  grateful  compliments  and  coaxing  good-humor, 
many  nurses  are  hired,  especially  if  they  are  relatives  and 
above  regular  wages  or  liberal  donations  of  half-worn 
coats  and  dresses.  The  professional  important  for 
knowledge  of  her  art,  Cousin  Jane  solicitous  about  foot- 
warmers  and  the  flavor  of  their  broth,  and  Mrs.  O'Fla- 
herty  from  a  neighboring  attic,  "tidying  up  and  setting 
things  handy,"  before  she  goes  to  her  day's  work — each 
has  her  price  in  coin  of  the  realm  or  the  heart.  It  is 
always  possible  to  pay  in  one  or  the  other ;  and  in  conse- 
quence, one  nurse  at  least  to  every  invalid,  is  ordinarily 
the  proportion. 

The  advent  of  the  professional  is  usually  attended  with 
mystery.  The  patient  opens  his  eyes,  after  the  confusion 
of  delirium  or  the  blank  of  stupor,  and  she  is  there  by 
his  bedside,  offering  a  cooling  drink  or  a  dose  of  medicine. 
Whence  she  came  or  how  he  cannot  tell.  It  seems  to 
him  in  the  first  waverings  of  consciousness  that  she  has 
always  been  there,  that  he  is  the  late  arrival.  He  watches 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  21 

her,  gliding  about  the  room,  moving  chair  or  table  into 
place,  shading  the  lamp,  and  smoothing  the  tossed  and 
tumbled  counterpane.  "Who  are  you?"  he  asks  faintly. 
"I  am  only  the  nurse,"  she  answers  with  a  reassuring 
smile.  "You  mustn't  talk.  It's  all  right."  A  vague 
belief  that  if  it  isn't  she  will  make  it  so  possesses  him. 
He  feels  protected  and  cared  for,  and  drops  trustfully  off 
to  sleep.  When  he  wakes  she  is  still  on  guard,  but  with 
nothing  of  the  sentinel  in  her  appearance;  she  is  like 
a  gracious  hostess.  Never  questioning  her  claims,  as  he 
might  under  different  conditions,  he  is  content  to  be  a 
pensioner  on  his  own  estates.  More  and  more  acquies- 
cent does  he  become,  subdued  by  the  unaggressive  per- 
sonality which  rules  the  apartment  without  crowding 
its  inmate.  There  is  no  clashing  of  wills.  Before  he  has 
named  it  to  himself  she  has  read  desire  or  revulsion  on  his 
face  and  the  object  is  advanced  or  removed.  With  a 
regularity  as  smooth  and  even  as  the  swing  of  a  pendu- 
lum, she  airs  the  room,  clears  it  of  dust  and  disorder, 
feeds  her  charge,  doses  and  diverts  him. 

Nights  and  days  come  and  go,  he  cannot  tell  how 
many  of  them.  They  stand  in  his  memory  as  so  many 
alternate  black  and  white  lines,  uneventful  but  rather 
soothing  to  think  of.  Suddenly,  as  suddenly  as  she 
came,  the  nurse  takes  her  leave.  The  patient  feels  de- 
serted, indignant.  He  is  just  beginning  to  realize  how 
very  ill  he  is.  It  is  inhuman  to  leave  him  in  the  lurch. 
There  can  be  no  one  who  needs  her  more.  He  is  ready 
to  shoot  the  doctor  for  suggesting  such  a  thing.  He  is 
convinced  that  he  will  have  a  relapse  and  is  somewhat 
chagrined  when  he  finds  such  a  back-somersault  impos- 
sible. 

A  man  who  "can  do  whatever  is  necessary"  takes  the 
vacant  place.  Enter  stolid  Carl,  rich  in  vitality  and 
impervious  to  scolding,  mesmeric  from  superabundance 
of  nerve  and  muscle.  The  very  grasp  of  his  hugh  paw 
is  invigorating.  To  be  near  him  is  like  breathing  the 
wholesome  odor  of  kine  or  putting  one's  head  on  the 
neck  of  a  fine  well-groomed' horse.  In  seasons  of  greater 


22  THE  INN   OF  REST 

debility  the  tonic  would  be  too  powerful.  But  now—- 
the doctor  was  right;  the  time  for  scientific  skill  and 
methodical  regularity  is  past.  Flesh  and  blood  stimuli 
added  to  ordinary  attendance  are  all  that  is  required. 
The  invalid  wants  to  pull  himself  up  on  his  feet.  Brute 
strength  must  be  at  hand  to  help  him. 

The  instinct  of  self-preservation — one  may  as  well  call 
it  by  a  high-sounding  name — makes  a  perfect  vampire 
of  a  sick  man.  It  is  not  altogether  watching,  or  care,  or 
constant  service,  or  the  keen  sense  of  responsibility 
which  exhausts  a  nurse,  nor  all  of  them  combined.  It 
is  the  presence  of  a  patient's  famished  body,  taking  in 
at  every  pore  the  nervous  energy  of  whoever  is  near. 
The  weakling  pants  for  life.  Life  he  must  have.  Give 
me  your  hand,  Carl.  Send  the  full  charge  of  your  human 
battery  along  my  veins.  That  is  better  than  wine,  better 
than  the  broad,  impersonal  warmth  of  the  sun.  It  is 
the  quickening  of  pulse  by  pulse,  the  kindling  of  life  by 
life.  Strange  and  unaccountable  are  physical  influences, 
but  more  potent  in  this  world  than  men  are  willing  to  own. 
They  are  unheeded  in  the  hurrying  crowd,  where  electri- 
city passes  constantly  with  the  jostling  of  elbows.  But 
the  sensibilities  of  the  insulated  invalid  quiver  like  pith- 
balls  when  brought  into  contact  with  positive  and  nega- 
tive forces.  Certain  persons  give  and  others  take  from 
him  the  strength  which  is  his  carefully  hoarded  treasure. 
He  rebels  against  proximity  with  one,  and  clings  like 
a  frightened  child  to  another.  To  say  that  the  well  and 
strong  are  the  attractive  forces  is  not  enough.  Often  they 
repel  by  those  very  characteristics.  Goodness  and  virtue 
have  little  to  do  with  it,  and  sympathy  is  but  a  moderate 
factor.  The  feeling  is  almost  wholly  unreasonable,  and 
when  examined  proves  as  incapable  of  analysis  as  the 
woman's  "I  think  hi:m  so  because  I  think  him  so." 

I  liked  Carl  and  detested  Charlie,  although  the  service 
of  the  latter  was  absolutely  flawless  and  the  former  occa- 
sionally slept  through  an  entire  night  undisturbed  by  a 
shower  of  pillows  and  the  contents  of  the  medicine  glass. 
If  I  were  well,  either  man  would  be  judged  "a  good  fel- 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  23 

low"  and  passed  with  indifference.  Invalidism  has  re- 
adjusted the  scales  so  that  mere  fancy  decides  for  the  one 
and  against  the  other.  When  well  I  could  not  endure 
Sambo.  Ill,  I  look  upon  him  as  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
amusement.  The  manner  in  which  he  says,  "Yes,  sah," 
with  a  sanctimonious  roll  of  his  eyes  and  a  minstrel  grin, 
is  delightful.  It  is  a  toy  with  a  string  which  I  pull  as  often 
as  I  please.  The  unfailing  good  humor  of  these  dusky 
brethren  is  enormously  in  their  favor  as  nurses.  If  ever  a 
man  detests  the  lean,  hungry  Cassius,  it  is  when  he  comes 
to  wait  by  one's  bedside.  You  can  forgive  the  blundering 
and  fibbing  and  petty  larceny,  but  you  cannot  forgive  the 
bringing  of  fogs  and  damps  into  your  presence.  What 
if  Sambo  was  flourishing  around  in  my  best  claw-hammer 
after  I  was  asleep.  Awake,  I  was  entertained  by  the 
cheeriest  companion  in  the  invalid  world.  Entertained? 
This  is  not  down  on  the  list  of  the  nurse's  obligations. 
It  enters  largely  into  the  nurse's  habit,  however.  Is  it 
not  so,  my  brothers  ?  Have  you  forgotten  Mrs.  F.'s  quiet 
joke  or  "Uncle  T.'s"  amusing  yarns?  Don't  you  remem- 
ber "Mother  C"?  jolly  bright-cheeked  "Mother  C,"  the 
quondam  farmer's  wife,  carrying  her  wholesome,  home- 
spun nature  and  quaint  country  phrases  into  her  skillful 
"trained"  work?  It  always  seemed  when  she  came  in  as 
if  she  came  straight  from  the  orchard  or  the  dairy,  and 
not  merely  because  she  would  have  half-a-dozen  apples  in 
her  apron  or  a  glass  of  milk  in  her  hand.  She  used  to 
act  as  if  illness  was  a  joke  between  you  and  her,  an 
excuse  for  gaining  extra  goodies  and  special  attention,  a 
chance  to  laugh  and  be  lazy  when  awake  and  to  sleep 
prodigally  when  so  disposed.  She  has  persuaded  you 
into  believing  it. — Ah,  you  remember.  I  see  your  ban- 
daged heads  nod  and  your  drawn  lips  shorten  into  a 
smile,  as  across  the  dark  background  of  painful  recollec- 
tions glide  the  figures  of  those  who  brightened  an  inva- 
lid's sorry  lot,  the  various  types  of  that  potentate,  the 
nurse.  "Potentate,  indeed !  She  acts  as  if  she  owned  the 
establishment/'  sulks  the  head  of  the  house.  "She 
needn't  come  into  my  kitchen  with  her  airs,"  wags  the 


24  THE  INN  OF  REST 

tail  of  the  house.  And  all  the  intermediate  members  look 
askance  at  the  temporary  queen  who  dares  and  continues 
to  dare,  with  utmost  serenity,  assured  of  a  strong  posi- 
tion flanked  by  His  Highness,  the  Doctor. 

One  of  these  masterful  spirits  I  knew  who  had  charge 
of  a  farmer's  wife  dying  from  over-work  and  need  of 
nutrition.  Four  small  children  hung  around  the  house- 
door,  gaunt,  hollow-eyed  little  wretches,  following  their 
mother  as  fast  as  youth  and  a  naturally  vigorous  consti- 
tution permitted.  The  father,  a  grim  old  whiskerando, 
had  always  kept  the  desires  of  his  family  under  his  will 
and  the  key  to  the  store-room  in  his  overalls'  pocket, 
doling  out  scanty  rations  and  scantier  pleasures  as  his 
whim  decreed.  The  nurse's  keen  eyes  and  ready  wit 
comprehended  the  situation.  She  planned  an  attack. 
"Go  you  to  bed,"  she  said  sweetly  to  the  despot.  "I  am 
accustomed  to  watch  alone  with  my  patients."  And  he 
climbed  the  attic  stairsv  As  soon  as  all  was  still,  a  ghostly 
figure  traversed  the  farmhouse  and  the  adjacent  build- 
ings. It  peered  into  closets  and  corners,  hunted  from  kit- 
chen to  shed,  from  shed  to  barn  and  out-house.  Finally, 
it  seemed  to  find  what  it  sought,  a  padlocked  door.  A  few 
dexterous  turns  of  a  hatchet  and  the  door  broke  open,  dis- 
closing row  upon  row  of  barrels  and  boxes. 

"Humph,"  sniffed  the  nurse,  "we'll  see  about  this/' 

Back  to  the  kitchen  she  trudged,  and  returned 
with  a  bucket  in  either  hand.  Flour,  eggs,  butter,  and 
the  like  comestibles  she  rapidly  transferred  frota  their 
hiding-place  to  the  long  board  table  by  the  kitchen  stove, 
while  the  farmer  still  snored  peacefully  above  stairs 
unconscious  that  the  enemy  was  in  his  magazine  and  all 
the  next  quarter's  supplies  were  out  at  once.  Softly  but 
swiftly  until  dawn  put  an  end  to  her  opportunity,  the 
nurse  mixed  and  rolled  out  and  put  into  the  oven,  until 
the  pantry  shelves  were  full  and  so  was  the  long  board 
table. — The  mother  died,  and  so  did  most  of  the  children, 
but  they  smacked  their  thin  lips  over  one  generous  meal 
in  a  life-time  of  prevalent  hunger. 

The  invading  nurse  is  no  exception.     Hers  is  the  cru- 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  25 

sader's  zeal.  She  tilts  against  disease  and  death,  as  do 
the  doctors,  but  her  lance  is  often  a  pudding-stick,  her 
armor  the  kettle  and  saucepan.  How  can  she  leave  her 
juicy  meats  to  be  tampered  with  by  an  unregenerate 
cook  whose  mission  is  not  the  healthful  but  the  palatable? 
How  can  she  intrust  her  delicate  custard,  her  savory  beef- 
tea  to  an  unappreciative  being  in  whose  category  they 
rank  as  messes?  Moreover,  if  an  obstacle  intervene  her 
prowess  and  any  dietetic  material,  she  must  break  down, 
overthrow,  trample  upon  the  obstacle.  The  doctor  does 
not  say '"give  your  patient  chicken-broth  if  you  can  get 
a  chicken."  The  condition  is  omitted.  A  chicken  she 
must  have,  though  the  hen-roosts  in  the  neighborhood 
suffer  in  consequence;  and  broth  it  must  make  if  all 
the  regiment  of  the  kitchen  are  to  be  bound  and  removed 
from  the  path  to  the  stove,  as  a  preliminary  to  the  boil- 
ing. So  much  for  the  region  below  stairs.  Above  stairs 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  nurse  to  banish  every  cause  of  an- 
noyance. She  must  be  a  policeman  driving  away  from 
her  charge  the  noisy,  the  exciting,  the  disagreeable, 
even  if  she  separate  husband  and  wife,  parent  and  child. 
"Hard  lines !"  sighs  the  patient,  hearing  a  low  utterance 
of  the  fiat  which  excludes  some  petitioner  at  the  door. 
But  in  his  inmost  soul  he  is  grateful  for  the  shield  as  he 
nestles  behind  it. 

H.'s  wife  is  a  treasure  in  this  respect.  The  doc- 
tor has  only  to  say,  "Keep  him  quiet,"  and  the 
angel  Gabriel  would  be  wheedled  out  of  his  trum- 
pet if  he  put  it  to  his  lips  when  she  was  on  duty.  Once 
when  H.  was  down  with  nervous  prostration,  some  one 
actually  died  in  the  room  opposite  his  without  his 
knowledge.  It  was  an  old  aunt  who  stopped  on  her  way 
to  seek  medical  advice  in  a  neighboring  city.  She  had 
had  one  fit  and  lived  in  hourly  expectation  of  another. 
Of  course  a  paroxysm  seized  her  in  H.'s  house;  there 
is  a  fatality  about  such  things.  Her  companion  was 
nearly  as  helpless  as  herself,  what  with  fright  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  place ;  but  H.'s  plucky  wife  was,  as 
usual,  mistress  of  the  situation.  She  dragged  a  mattress 


26  THE  INN   OF  REST 

before  her  husband's  door,  muffling  the  sound  of  the  sick 
woman's  groans.  Then,  with  the  doctor's  commands 
constantly  before  her,  she  watched  both  patients  and 
guarded  this  one  from  that,  as  only  a  woman  can  guard 
the  being  she  loves.  Doctors  came  in  numbers.  The 
woman  died  horribly.  The  undertakers  prepared  her 
body  for  burial.  It  was  placed  in  a  coffin  and  borne  from 
the  house.  And  the  nervous,  watchful  invalid,  suspicious 
of  every  sound,  knew  naught  of  the.  guest  save  that  she 
came  and  went.  Now  in  one  room,  now  in  another,  ap- 
peared the  wife,  answering  H.'s  questions,  telling  him 
stories,  supplying  his  needs,  and  again  in  the  midst  of 
the  trying  death-scene  governing  and  guiding  the  neces- 
sary arrangements.  Six  weeks  afterward,  when  H.  was 
riding  out,  she  told  him  how  it  was.  He  didn't  quite 
relish  the  bit  of  finesse,  although  he  appreciated  the  ten- 
derness which  prompted  it.  No  man  enjoys  being  duped, 
whatsoever  the  object.  He  said  nothing,  but  the  next 
day,  when  Bridget  fell  down  the  back-stairs  with  a  lamp 
in  each  hand,  he  was  at  the  foot  almost  as  soon  as  she 
landed.  "If  any  one  else  dies  in  this  house,  I'm  going 
to  know  it,"  he  said,  resolutely. 

It  may  be  that  no  professional  will  thus  guard  a  patient. 
To  affirm  this  is  more  complimentary  to  wedlock;  and 
indeed  it  must  be  true  that  loyal  affection  will  find  ways 
and  means  unknown  to  common  service.  But  the  inva- 
lids have  seen  how  patience  and  fidelity  can  dignify  and 
ennoble  common  service  until  it  becomes  a  graceful  and 
gracious  performance,  if  not  a  grand  one. 

The  hub  of  the  invalid's  wheel  of  fortune  is  plainly  the 
doctor.  All  things  center  in  and  revolve  about  his  coun- 
sel. But  the  felloe  is  the  all-embracing,  all-sustaining 
influence  of  the  nurse.  By  her  interference  the  wheel 
runs  smoothly,  the  outside  world  keeps  its  place,  and 
every  need  of  the  small  inner  world  is  met  and  covered. 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  27 


III. 
THE  VISITOR. 

|T  IS  often  a  source  of  amusement  to  the  owners  of 
dogs  or  other  pets  to  note  the  shallow  subterfuges 
they  employ  in  order  to  gain  sympathy.  Illness 
magnified  to  win  soft  words  and  caresses,  a  lame 
leg  handled  as  cleverly  as  ever  the  begging  impostor  in  the 
street  handles  his — these  are  comTnon  enough  among  the 
creatures  to  whom  we  stand  as  patrons  and  benefactors. 
We  laugh  at  the  trick;  and  yet,  in  that  corner  of  our 
hearts  where  lie  the  tops  and  whirligigs  of  childhood,  the 
rattles  and  straws  once  puissant  and  adorable,  rests  the 
machinery  for  similar  maneuvers.  The  plaintive  whim- 
per of  the  baby  whose  fictitious  aches  were  a  passport  to 
"mother's  bed,"  the  paraded  bruise  calling  for  her  salve  of 
kisses,  the  exaggerated  cough  that  appealed  for  anxious 
fondling  along  with  the  "drops"  administered — such  were 
the  screws  and  pulleys  which  the  Infantine  Inquisition 
brought  to  bear  upon  tender  hearts.  They  fell  into 
disuse  when  nursery  despotism  was  exchanged  for  the 
equal  rights  of  the  playground,  and  remained  hidden, 
almost  forgotten,  until  sickness  brought  them  to  light. 
Out  they  came  somewhere  about  the  time  we  wished 

Dr.  was  not  so  determined  to  look  upon  us  as  a 

"case,"  and  that  Nurse would  not  consider  broken 

legs  an  ordinary  affair  and  sound  ones  the  fortuity.  An 
uncontrollable  desire  for  the  punch  of  human  sympathy 
possessed  our  soul,  a  revolt  from  the  matter-of-fact  diet  of 
the  sick  room,  an  impulse  to  throw  all  the  old  furniture 
out  of  the  window  and  call  for  new.  This  was  about  the 
time  we  had  our  first  visitor.  And  how  we  did  enjoy  it ! 
How  we  posed  as  "one  who  has  been  through  a  great 
deal,"  rehearsing  our  ails  and  their  remedies  in  glib 


28  THE   INN   OF  REST 

phrases  which  would  have  brought  a  smile  to  the  lips  of 
the  M.  D.  from  which  we  borrowed  them,  but  which  were 
to  the  appalled  listeners  a  perfect  Bugaboo,  a  Raw-Head- 
and-Bloody-Bones  frightful  in  the  extreme.  We  slept 
soundly  that  night  and  were  ready  for  more  visitors  the 
next  day.  It  was  announced  that  we  were  "ready  to  see 
people,"  and  the  announcement  was  followed  by  the 
prophecy  that  we  "would  go  right  along  now."  We  did. 
It  was  inevitable. 

To  say  that  the  visitor  ever  takes  the  place  of  doctor 
or  nurse  is  absurd,  but  there  always  conies  a  time  when 
his  aid  is  indispensable.  There  have  been  patients,  sup- 
erhuman or  subhuman,  who  look  to  Mother  Nature  at  the 
crisis  of  convalescence,  but  they  were  pretty  certain  to 
have  a  relapse.  Alas,  we  fall  at  her  feet  as  Heinrich 
Heine  did  at  the  feet  of  Venus  de  Milo,  in  agony  of  long- 
ing for  sympathy ;  but  our  goddess  answers  as  did  his, 
"See  I  have  no  arms,  I  cannot  help  you."  She  has  only 
her  beautiful  body  and  divine  countenance.  She  cannot 
so  much  as  lift  a  finger  for  the  suppliant.  It  is  worth 
something  to  gain  the  aspiration  which  comes  from  gaz- 
ing upon  her,  from  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  her 
goddess  presence,  strong  and  serene  as  she  is ;  but  she  is 
utterly  self-contained  and  devoid  of  "the  fellow-feeling" 
for  which  we  all,  at  one  time  or  another,  hunger  and 
thirst. 

That  other  divinity,  who  masquerades  as  a  sort  of  mod- 
ern Judith  Holofernes,  ready  to  off  with  your  head  at  any 
moment,  but  who  is  in  reality  a  soft-hearted  dame,  filled 
with  the  kindliest  emotions  as  soon  as  she  sees  the  doc- 
tor's gig  at  your  door — I  mean  the  fussy,  good-natured  old 
lady,  Mrs.  Grundy,  is  sure  to  give  you  a  lift  if  you  will 
take  it.  She  has  arms  though  she  is  not  classic.  She  may 
do  her  best  to  make  you  uncomfortable  while  you  are 
well,  but  once  take  to  your  bed  and  she  is  your  devoted 
friend.  She  will  tempt  your  appetite,  strengthen  your 
heart,  be  winsome  and  chatty  and  helpful — until  she  can 
set  you  up,  like  a  ten-pin,  for  another  knock-over.  Pos- 
sibly. But  her  goodness  is  genuine  as  long  as  it  lasts. 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  29 

Ladies  to  whom  you  are  merely  a  name  will  send  delici- 
ous dishes  in  to  you.  Men  who  shook  their  fists  in  your 
face  at  the  last  election  will  leave  kindly  messages  at 
your  door.  Curly-headed  children  who  resented  all  your 
advances  when  you  met  them  in  the  street  are  all  agog 
with  eagerness  to  "come  and  see  you."  If  it  is  true  that 
all  mankind  love  a  lover,  it  is  equally  indisputable  that 
all  mankind  feel  in  duty  bound  to  nurse  an  invalid. 

His  desire  to  obtain  sympathy  is  no  stronger  than 
their  desire  to  offer  it ;  and  sympathy  is  not  the  only  boon 
obtained  from  the  visitor.  There  is  a  horrible  resem- 
blance between  the  inhabitants  of  a  beleaguered  city  and 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  man  who  has  been  shut 
up  to  feed  upon  himself  for  days  and  weeks  and  months 
of  unavoidable  imprisonment.  Let  the  newcomer  send 
a  fresh  breeze  blowing  through  the  fever-filled  apart- 
ment !  Let  him  bring  a  feast  and  the  appetite  for  it !  Let 
him  raise  the  cruel  siege!  It  is  an  insufficient  proverb 
which  names  variety  "life's  spice."  Science  defends  the 
definition  which  makes  it  no  less  than  the  life  itself.  In 
weakness,  more  than  in  strength,  the  change  must  come 
from  without.  Inertia  holds  the  sick  man  like  a  clod  to 
his  place.  Monotony  flaunts  before  him  her  grinding  rep- 
etitions. It  was  an  invalid,  of  course,  who  longed  to  die 
because  he  was  tired  of  having  his  shoes  put  off  and  on, 
Yet  another  invalid  and  of  the  same  sensitive  French 
nation,  delighted  in  being  dressed  to  the  end  of  his  days 
and  lived  merrily  among  his  friends. 

More  than  sympathy  and  more  than  variety  must  my 
visitor  yield.  He  must  unite  me  with  the  world  again. 
If  there  is  only  one  of  me  I  am  a  feeble,  insignificant 
thing.  If  there  are  some  twenty  millions  of  creatures  of 
whom  I  am  one,  I  am  part  of  a  powerful  body  which 
rules,  conquers,  invents,  philosophizes,  and  deports 
itself  as  the  flower  of  creation  should.  My  visitor  is  to  re- 
mind me  that  I  belong  to  this  soul-satisfying  majority  and 
not  to  the  sad,  weak  minority  I  had  fancied  as  I  sat  alone 
in  my  easy-chair  and  forgot  my  fellows.  For  my  solitary, 
sanitary  lines  of  thought  he  substitutes  the  political  out- 


30  THE  INN  OF  REST 

look,  the  question  of  Home-rule,  or  Eastern  affairs.  We 
discuss  an  improved  engine  or  a  torpedo  boat.  And  he 
tells  a  neat  epigram  which  J.  got  off  the  other  day.  I 
become  proud  of  my  connection  with  such  a  bright  and 
forward  race. 

Opinions  of  my  own  sprout  and  grow.  The  strain  which 
threatened  to  snap  my  self-possession  relaxes.  Emotions 
and  ideas  throw  off  the  dust  which  clogged  them.  To 
sympathize  is  an  instinct  with  those  to  whom  it 
belongs ;  diversity  of  entertainment  is  a  talent  educated ; 
but  to  lift  a  fellow-being  out  of  the  slough  of  self  and  to 
set  him  upon  the  firm  ground  of  common  interests  and 
endeavors  is  a  stroke  of  genius.  Whoever  can  do  this 
should  be  a  professional  visitor.  He  should  follow  in  the 
wake  of  doctor  and  nurse,  an  equal  member  of  the  trade, 
licensed  by  the  royal  law  of  expediency  to  take  his  place 
and  fill  it  as  no  one  else  can. 

Nature?  She  is  as  much  at  fault  here  as  in  the 
bestowal  of  sympathy.  She  can  soothe,  but  she  cannot 
electrify.  In  order  to  get  hope  and  courage  and  good 
advice  out  of  her,  one  has  first  to  read  them 
into  her  as  with  music.  But  these  independ- 
ent creatures  walking  past  us — and  over  us  if 
we  get  in  the  way — have  something  about  them 
which  we  did  not  put  in,  something  which  is  not  our- 
selves, and  is  therefore  much  more  refreshing  than  the 
increase  of  an  already  abnormally  developed  ego.  When 
they  offer  hope  and  courage  and  good  advice,  there  is 
an  actual  plus  and  no  differentiation. 

But  there  are  visitors  and  visitors,  not  alone  the  divert- 
ing, amusing  allies,  but  those  who  add  their  burdens  or 
the  weight  of  a  non-giving,  absorbing  vitality  to  the  sick 
man's  load.  These  talk  in  high,  excited  voices  of  what 
interests  them  solely,  or  tell  of  ails  "a  great  deal  worse 
than  yours,"  and  give  elaborate  descriptions  of  the  case 
of  X.  or  Y. — a  provoking  instance  of  carrying  coals  to 
Newcastle.  They  ask  their  thousand  questions  about 
your  condition  and  follow  you  as  closely  as  if  you  were 
a  sworn  witness  for  the  defense  and  they  the  prosecut- 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  31 

ing  attorney.  They  insist  with  forceful  argument  and 
friendly  zeal  on  cramming  some  diabolical  patent  medi- 
cine down  your  throat,  will  you,  nill  you.  These  are  the 
sympathizers  whose  offering  is  a  knife  and  a  halter  to 
the  victimized  patient.  But  any  one  of  them  is  prefer- 
able to  the  mournful  visitor  who  advances  with 
the  subdued  air  and  looks  into  the  face  of  the  re- 
cumbent with  the  same  expression  which  he,  poor 
fellow,  has  seen  her  wear  when  she  was  per- 
forming her  special  duties  at  a  funeral  and  look- 
ing into  an  open  coffin.  Whenever  I  see  a  certain 
one  of  these  visitors  coming,  I  know  that  I  am  considered 
a  possible  object,  for  she  makes  it  her  business  to  visit 
the  afflicted,  and  her  self-appointed  mission  is  no  secret. 
She  has  a  smooth,  placid  face,  and  her  voice  is  modu- 
lated by  nature  to  utter  words  of  condolence.  But  when 
she  turns  her  eyes  piously  upward,  "thanking  her  Heav- 
enly Father"  for  what  he  has  bestowed  upon  her,  there 
is  an  unpleasant  suggestion  of  the  complacent  old  party 
in  the  New  Testament  who  did  the  same,  and,  sinner  that 
I  am,  I  prefer  to  remain  "afar  off."  No,  no,  fellow-crea- 
tures, give  me  what  you  can  of  spontaneous  good-will 
but  rid  me  of  this  barrel-organ  of  perfunctory  pity !  John, 
if  that  woman  calls  again,  I'm  out — I'm  dead — I  never 
was  born!  But  the  condoler  has  one  virtue,  quietness; 
and  this  is  lacking  in  the  pugnacious  visitor,  who  informs 
you  briskly,  that  your  doctor  is  a  fool  and  your  nurse 
what  she  shouldn't  be,  that  you'll  never  get  well  in  this 
world  if  you  don't  turn  them  both  out  of  doors  and  get 
a  new  outfit.  An  argument  is  useless.  You  might  as 
well  attempt  to  out-talk  a  March  tempest.  Even  if  you 
say  nothing  you  are  left  in  a  sore  and  disheartened  state, 
feeling  very  much  as  if  you  had  had  a  "round"  with  a  pro- 
fessional pugilist. 

Satisfactory  as  any  visitors  are  the  children.  They  are 
apt  entertainers  and  they  can  be  sent  home  or  told  not 
to  handle  things.  The  minister's  little  girls,  Martha  and 
Mary,  aged  four  and  three,  come  in  to  see  me  once  a 
week,  and  they  always  say  a  good  thing  or  two  before 


32  THE  INN  OF  REST 

they  leave.  Martha,  true  to  her  name,  is  "troubled  about 
many  things,"  and  especially  about  Mary,  whom  she 
takes  every  opportunity  to  educate  and  discipline. 
"That,"  she  said  to  her  charge  to-day,  pointing  to  the 
Orphanage  opposite  my  window,  and  her  mien  would 
adorn  the  Lady  Principal  of  a  Female  Seminary,  "that  is 
where  the  little  Orphans  live.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Orphan  are 
dead." 

"Yes,"  she  replies  to  'my  inquiry  if  Mary  is  not  a 
great  care,  "she  has  my  crib,  now,  with  me."  "But  where 
do  you  sleep?"  I  pursue,  with  a  glance  at  Mary's  ample 
little  figure.  "Oh,"  with  a  sigh  which  speaks  volumes,  "I 
sleep  where  Mary  don't." 

More  lively  are  the  interviews  with  young  Augustus 
Caesar  from  over-the-way,  sent  in  by  his  mother  to  "talk 
to  poor  Mr.  Ward,  who  hasn't  any  little  boys  and  is  all 
sick."  Full  of  his  errand  he  takes  his  stand  directly  in 
front  of  me,  assuming  an  oratorical  attitude,  his  legs  far 
apart.  Then  he  begins  in  a  loud  voice :  "We've  got  'leven 
little  roosters  over  to  our  house."  "That  so?"  "M-m-m" 
— the  prolonged  aspirate  serving  for  an  affirmative — "and 
they're  all  crowin'.  My  farver  set  twelve  eggs  and  'leven 
hatched  and  they're  'nuff  growed  up  to  crow.  It's  aw- 
fully funny."  Here  the  gravity  of  the  occasion  is  power- 
less to  longer  rein  in  the  dimples  of  the  orator.  The  au- 
dience laughs,  too,  in  hearty  appreciation.  There  are  oc- 
casions when  Church  and  State  may  flourish  or  fall  with- 
out exciting  a  throb  of  interest  in  the  palsied  heart  of  the 
invalid,  when  the  efforts  of  our  brightest  and  best  be- 
loved are  but  a  sorry  defense  against  the  blues ;  but  the 
picture  of  "  'leven  little  roosters,  crowin',"  is  irresistibly 
picturesque  and  exhilarating.  It  is  like  the  sniff  of  a  vin- 
aigrette. I  am  no  longer  bored  or  indifferent. 

Another  visitor  who  never  misses  a  welcome  is  the 
bringer  of  eatables.  The  article  may  be  inferior  to  scxme- 
thing  scorned  by  the  invalid  appetite  when  prepared  at 
home,  but  home  talent  never  was  appreciated  in  pro- 
phecies or  puddings.  The  delicacy  gets  eaten,  and  a 
value  is  put  upon  it  as  a  commodity  by  those  who  dis- 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  33 

like  to  go  to  a  sick-room  empty-handed.  Nowhere  is 
the  practise  of  "carrying  something"  to  the  invalid  more 
general  than  in  the  country.  But  as  to  that,  nowhere 
does  visiting  arrive  at  such  perfection  as  in  the  one- 
streeted  villages  where  the  list  of  inhabitants  is  not  too 
long  nor  their  duties  too  varied  to  admit  of  frequent 
"dropping  in"  and  "running  over,"  particularly  if  there  is 
a  sufferer  to  be  "set  with." 

The  visitor  enters  easily  by  the  unlocked  front  door, 
making  a  way,  with  occasional  raps,  into  the  family  ar- 
cana. There  is  no  resisting  the  lever  of  a  question  then. 
Can  you  refuse  any  piece  of  information  to  one  who  has 
learned  your  morning  habits  or  your  fondness  for  old 
shoes?  He  has  your  cloak,  he  may  as  well  take  your 
coat  also.  And  he  will.  Are  you  a  new  arrival,  diligent 
search  is  made  for  all  available  facts  bearing  upon  your 
condition,  spiritual  and  secular,  th'e  utmost  pains  being 
taken  until  you  are  sorted  and  arranged.  If  soime  move- 
ment of  your  own  or  Fate's  shake  you  out  of  position, 
with  the  same  eagerness  the  busy  folk  will  rearrange  you. 
It  is  not  an  ill-natured  performance.  It  is  gone  through 
with  as  one  goes  through  an  avocation,  a  duty.  Gossip  is 
dragged  before  the  eyes  of  men,  not  from  diseased  de- 
light in  it,  but  as  sun  and  wind  uncover  and  light  upon 
carrion,  simply  and  naively  and  as  a  matter  of  course. 
It  is  needless  to  state  there  is  no  demand  for  detectives 
in  a  region  of  this  sort.  To  ask  and  to  answer  is  the 
habit  of  all.  A  railing  accusation  brought  against  one 
young  lady  by  an  elder  of  the  same  sex  was  that  in  what 
was  deemed  an  important  affair  she  never  told  what  she 
knew.  If  one  can  recover  from  a  slight  tingling  sensa- 
tion when  being  examined  by  the  neighbors  there  is 
something  pleasant  and  patriarchal  in  living  near  to  each 
other's  joys  and  sorrows.  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  now, 
but  when  I  was  a  boy  less  than  half  a  century  ago,  it 
was  deemed  a  breach  of  etiquette  not  to  wait  upon  the 
infant  in  its  earliest  stage  of  blush  and  wrinkle,  to  wish 
it  luck  or  note  its  resemblance  to  its  parents.  The  con- 
trary extreme  of  life  was  equally  well  attended.  When 


34  THE  INN   OF  REST 

any  one  went  through  the  ceremony  of  dying,  the  neigh- 
bors were  invited  in  and  stood  about  the  bed  while  the 
last  breaths  were  drawn;  very  much  as  if  they  would 
"see"  some  one  "off"  on  a  journey. 

This  bestowal  of  interest  and  benevolence  has  its  cor- 
relate in  the  ingenious  demand  for  them.  Ask  a  drink  of 
a  rustic  and  he  will  give  you  his  family  history  while 
he  is  letting  down  the  bucket.  To  withhold  sympathy 
and  to  neglect  to  ask  for  it  are  social  sins.  Not  to 
have  a  story  to  tell  is  to  fail  in  an  important  particular. 
To  tell  it  with  all  the  mysteriousness  attendant  upon 
tragic  recital  is  to  shine  as  a  visitor.  "I  knew  she'd 
never  get  well,"  says  Aunt  Susan  in  a  husky  whisper  and 
bending  forward  to  shake  a  lean  fore-finger  in  the  face 
of  the  patient  whom  she  is  entertaining.  "She  was  bet- 
ter on  the  Sabbath.  Needn't  tell  me  o'  Sunday  better- 
ments." Cold  tremors  run  up  and  down  the  spine  of  the 
sick  woman  who  listens,  but  she  would  never  think  of  re- 
fusing to  hear  the  old-wife  tales.  They  are  part  of  the  vis- 
iting program. 

Under  the  auspices  of  Science,  where  visits  are 
weighed  and  measured  as  carefully  as  'medicines,  as  spar- 
ingly as  smelts,  Aunt  Susan  would  have  small  chance  to 
distinguish  herself.  And  when  the  patient  is  able  to 
make  his  own  choice  it  may  be  that  he  will  have  neither 
Aaron  nor  Hur  to  hold  up  his  feeble  arms,  will  shut  the 
door  on  the  loquacious  and  noisy,  the  exciting  and 
curious,  as  well  as  on  their  betters,  and  will  invite  the 
visitors  who  come  silently,  in  forms  which  never  startle, 
uttering  no  platitudes,  but  ever  cheering,  changing,  in- 
spiring, amusing — I  mean  the  books.  Therein  the  wisest 
and  the  wittiest,  the  traveler,  the  man  of  the  world,  and 
the  scholar  come  and  go  as  we  will,  utter  as  much  or  as 
little  as  we  decree,  and  of  their  best. 

But  these  are  for  the  advanced  convalescent.  Until 
he  can  reach  out  his  hand  to  take  them  there  is  ever  to 
be  found  the  visitor-in-the-flesh,  often  a  better  though 
humbler  aid  than  the  distilling  of  heart  and  brain  sealed 
in  written  words.  The  native  fruit  found  on  its  woody 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  35 

stem,  warm  from  the  lips,  the  hand  with  the  heart's 
blood  pulsing  to  its  finger-tips ;  these  are  better  digesters 
of  discomfort  and  ennui  than  sage  sayings  a  hundred  years 
old  or  a  tale  told  in  cold  blood  to  a  writing-desk. 


36  THE  INN   OF   REST 


IV. 

HOSPITALS. 

JLREADY,  before  Christmas,  hearts  are  kindling 
with  the  Christmas  spirit,  and  the  season  set 
apart  especially  by  Englishmen  to  deeds  of  hos- 
pitality, is  declaring  itself  to  most  of  us  with  a 
rich  loving  kindness,  redundantly  kind.  What  more 
seasonable  topic  can  there  be,  therefore,  just  now,  than 
hospitals,  their  name  and  purpose  being,  in  the  truest 
sense,  a  part  of  hospitality? 

Better  still  for  the  Christmas  application  of  the  word, 
they  are  essentially  a  part  of  hospitality  as  it  has  been  in- 
terpreted by  Christians.  We  have  the  word  from  ancient 
Rome.  The  hospes  are  guests,  and  whether  of  a  private 
person  or  of  a  temple  or  of  the  whole  state  had  a  sacred 
character;  Jupiter  Hospitalis  was  their  patron,  and 
avenged  their  wrongs.  The  hospitale  was  the  name  of  the 
guest-chamber  in  a  Roman's  house;  that  was  the  first 
idea  of  a  hospital.  The  stranger  introduced  to  his  host 
by  the  reco'mmendation  of  a  third  person,  was  safe  within 
the  gates  of  his  protector,  who  was  not  necessarily  his 
entertainer;  for,  after  one  dinner  with  the  family,  the 
stranger  generally  dined  in  the  hospitale,  and  paid  for  his 
food.  Among  the  early  Greeks  these  customs  of  hos- 
pitality were  kept  alive  by  the  religious  notion  that  any 
unknown  person  might  prove  to  be  a  god  come  in  dis- 
guise. The  guest  of  the  Greeks,  too,  had  Zeus  for  his  pe- 
culiar friend.  Besides  social  and  political  uses,  there  was 
mutual  advantage  to  be  had  by  Greeks  and  Romans  out 
of  their  own  customs  of  hospitality.  The  nursing  of  the 
sick  poor  formed  no  part  of  them  with  either  people. 

The  crowd  of  sick  people  lying  in  the  open  air  round 
about  the  temple  of  ^Esculapius  at  Epidaurus,  formed  the 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  37 

first  rough  sketch  of  a  hospital  for  the  sick  in  ancient 
times.  Antoninus  Pius  caused  a  building  to  be  furnished 
for  the  patients.  Before  that  time,  children  were  born 
there,  and  diseased  people  perished  on  the  ground  under 
the  open  sky — as  temple-keepers  told  Pausanias  with  sor- 
row. The  buildings  attached  to  the  temple  of  JEscu\&- 
pius  at  Rome,  on  the  island  in  the  Tiber,  formed  also 
a  receptacle  for  the  sick.  That  the  place  had  some  re- 
semblance to  a  modern  hospital  is  evident  from  the  de- 
cree of  the  Emperor  Claudius,  that  slaves  who  had  been 
sent  thither  for  healing  by  their  masters,  should  receive 
their  freedom  on  recovering.  The  bridges  Fabricius  and 
Cestius  connected  the  island  of  ^Esculapius  with,  the 
town.  There  are  no  other  traces  of  a  public  care  taken 
by  Romans  for  the  sick.  But  these  foundations  differ 
altogether  in  spirit  from  the  hospitals  for  the  sick  which 
exist  now  by  thousands  throughout  Christendom.  The 
temple  of  the  God  of  Healing  was  a  place  of  resort  for  per- 
sons suffering  under  disease,  who  journeyed  thither  as 
men  now  journey  to  Bath  or  Leamington ;  but,  in  a  more 
serious  mood,  for  they  went  not  only  to  spend  money 
but  to  pray.  Buildings  erected  for  their  use  bore,  there- 
fore, quite  as  much  an  analogy  to  a  pump-room  and 
lodgings  at  a  spa  as  to  a  set  of  modern  hospital  wards. 
This  is  nearly  the  case,  too,  with  the  only  trace  of  a  sick 
hospital  found  among  the  ancient  Jews,  the  House  of 
Mercy  at  Jerusalem,  built  beside  the  healing  springs  of 
Bethesda,  probably  by  Herod  the  Great,  that  patients 
might  await  in  it  the  movement  of  the  water.  The  an- 
cient world,  in  fact,  was  out  of  sympathy  with  the  funda- 
mental notion  of  a  hospital,  and  would  probably,  if  ques- 
tioned on  the  subject,  have  given  the  answer  of  Shah 
Abbas  of  Persia;  who,  being  asked  why  he  had  no  hos- 
pitals in  his  domains,  replied  that  they  would  be  a  shame 
to  him,  for  where  the  government  was  good  there  could 
be  no  poor,  no  sick. 

In  truer  sympathy  with  the  realities  by  which  they 
were  surrounded  the  Christian  apostles  began  the  new 
system  of  hospitality  by  urging  constantly  that  contribu- 


O/l  O 


38  THE  INN  OF  REST 

tions  be  collected  for  poor  brethren.  To  memorable 
words  of  the  Great  Founder  of  our  Faith,  the  modern 
hospitals  owe  their  beginning,  and  the  earliest  of  the 
bishops  were  most  zealous  to  get  money  for  the  poor, 
the  sick,  the  wayfarer,  the  orphan.  Economy  first  dic- 
tated the  collection  of  these  objects  of  care  in  large 
buildings  appropriated  to  their  use;  in  such  associa- 
tion many  might  be  served  by  few  attendants,  and  the 
means  of  help  might  be  enlarged  when  cost  was  saved 
in  food  and  lodging  as  well  as  in  attendance.  Already 
in  the  year  325,  the  Council  of  Nice  had,  among  other 
business,  to  define  the  qualities  and  duties  of  hospital- 
master.  Thirty-five  years  later  Gregory  of  Nazienzen  is 
found  urging  Julian  the  Apostate  to  imitate,  by  the  build- 
ing of  hospitals  and  travelers'  rests,  the  Christians  whom 
he  ridiculed.  And,  at  nearly  the  same  time,  Basil  the 
Great  speaks  of  the  early  Christians  as  having  developed 
the  hospital  system  into  completeness,  and  regards  it 
as  an  institution  quite  peculiar  to  themselves. 

This  Basil,  Metropolitan  of  Cappadocia,  himself 
founded,  about  the  year  380,  a  general  hospital,  called 
the  Basiliad ;  which  was,  among  the  hospitals  of  its  day 
and  all  time  before  it,  what  Saltaire  is  in  our  time  to  the 
English  factories.  Its  situation  was  before  the  gates  of 
its  founder's  especial  seat,  Cjesarea.  The  Basiliad  was 
richly  endowed  by  the  Emperor  Valens ;  and  others  arose 
on  its  pattern  in  the  Morea,  and  in  other  districts  of 
the  Eastern  Church.  Twenty  years  after  the  comple- 
tion of  the  Basiliad,  John  Chrysostom  erected  a  great 
general  hospital  in  Constantinople,  spending  upon  it  and 
other  smaller  hospitals  a  part  of  his  own  substance,  as 
well  as  the  superfluous  riches  of  the  Church.  It  is  at 
about  the  same  time — in  the  year  401 — that  we  first 
read  of  lunatic  asylums,  which  were  then  founded  by 
monks,  in  the  wilderness  of  Bithynia. 

Many  of  the  earliest  hospitals  were  intended  princi- 
pally for  the  exercise  of  hospitality  towards  poor  travel- 
ers— after  the  meaning  of  our  St.  Cross,  or  Sutton's 
Charity,  at  Rochester.  Some  were  for  rich  travelers,  who 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  39 

also  needed  solace  on  the  road.  Towards  the  close  of 
the  sixth  century,  Bishop  Bertichramnus  built  a  hospital 
for  poor  nobles,  and  another  for  both  rich  and  poor 
when  on  their  travels.  Another  bishop,  Aldricus,  built 
a  hospital  for  traveling  bishops,  counts,  and  abbots  and 
another  for  the  poor,  sick,  blind,  and  lame.  In  the 
eighth  century  we  find  laymen  at  work.  In  Lucca  alone 
there  were  then  three  hospitals  founded  by  bur- 
ghers, and  the  German  residents  there  were  estab- 
lishing, for  their  countrymen,  a  fourth. 

The  earliest  known  foundling  hospital  was  established 
in  the  year  787,  at  Milan.  The  first  approach  to  a  hos- 
pital for  crippled  soldiers  was  that  made  in  one  of  the 
most  famous  early  hospitals,  the  great  orphan  asylum  of 
the  Greek  Emperor,  Alexis  Comnenus,  founded  in  the 
year  1090.  Of  this  his  learned  daughter,  Anna  Porphy- 
rogenita,  testifies  that  it  equalled  a  small  town  in  size, 
and  that  the  enormous  host  of  poor  cherished  therein  did 
not  consist  wholly  of  orphans;  the  place  being  also  a 
refuge  open  to  others  who  required  support,  especially 
the  blind,  the  dumb,  the  lame.  It  was  also,  in  express 
terms,  open  to  decrepit  soldiers — noble  foreboding  of  our 
Invalides  and  Chelsea! 

The  bishops  were  at  first  the  managers  of  hospital 
affairs;  but,  as  the  sphere  of  episcopal  duties  and  ambi- 
tions widened,  they  devolved  this  care  upon  the  deacons, 
who  became  hospital-masters ;  so  that  at  last,  says  Thom- 
assinus  writing  on  Church  discipline,  diaconate  and  hos- 
pital became  almost  synonymous.  The  early  popes  dis- 
tinguished themselves  by  founding  many  such  charitable 
diaconates.  In  the  time  of  Anastasius  Bibliothecarius 
(the  ninth  century),  there  were  twenty-four  of  them  in 
Rome.  The  cardinals  afterward  got  these  and  fattened 
on  their  funds.  During  a  long  period,  fourteen  cardinal 
deacons,  named  from  chapels  on  the  site  of  the  abolished 
hospitals,  Santa  Maria  in  Via  Lata,  Santo  Giorgio  in 
Velabro,  et  cetera,  have  had  the  opportunity  of  pocket- 
ing the  money  of  the  poor. 

Isolated  divines  first  held  office  as  hospital-masters  in 


40  THE  INN   OF   REST 

the  provinces;  but  as  the  monastic  systetai  grew,  it,  by 
degrees,  absorbed  the  hospitals  into  itself.  The  vows  of 
poverty,  the  religious  functions,  the  knowledge,  the 
abundance  of  leisure,  and  the  numbers  of  monks  gathered 
under  one  roof,  made  it  appear  both  wise  and  natural  to 
entrust  them  with  the  nursing  of  the  sick  and  the  atten- 
dance upon  poor  afflicted  people  in  the  hospitals.  There 
even  arose  orders  of  monks  and  nuns — hospital  brothers 
and  sisters — vowed  especially  to  hospital  attendance. 

The  Crusaders  brought  into  Europe  the  leprosy  of  the 
East,  and  gave  rise  to  the  building  of  leper  afterwards 
pest  houses.  By  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury they  had  fallen  into  disuse,  but  the  number  of  or- 
dinary hospitals  had  increased  largely.  According  to 
their  nature  they  had  learned  names,  dating  generally 
from  the  time  of  Justinian,  and  from  the  names  we  know 
how  various  in  nature  they  had  always  been:  the  alms- 
houses  were  ptochotrophia ;  if  asylums  for  the  old,  ger- 
ontocomia;  for  children  or  orphans,  orphanotrophia ;  for 
foundlings,  brephotrophia ;  if  they  entertained  and  lodged 
strangers  or  pilgrims  they  were  xenodochia ;  if  for  the  lodg- 
ment of  the  sick,  nosocomia.  Plague  houses  had  the  mili- 
tary name  of  Lazarettos  from  the  hospital  of  St.  Lazarus, 
in  which  the  outcast  lepers,  called  Lazari,  were  received 
and  tended  by  brothers  of  the  order  of  St.  Lazarus  of 
Jerusalem.  There  were  even  medical  and  surgical,  and 
lying-in  and  lunatic  hospitals;  long  since  there  existed 
also  hospitals  for  curables  or  incurables,  and  for  special 
complaints,  as  diseases  of  the  chest  or  smallpox. 

We  have  cared  only  to  speak  of  the  birth  of  the  Hos- 
pital System.  Its  modern  growth  may  be  traced  in  the 
familiar  histories  of  such  foundations  as  the  Hotel  Dieu 
at  Paris,  or  of  Saint  Bartholomew's  and  Thomas's  in  Lon- 
don. Saint  Bartholomew's  dates  from  about  the  close  of 
the  period  to  which  we  have  been  now  referring.  In  the 
year  1102  it  was  founded  as  a  sick  hospital  in  connection 
with  the  priory  of  the  Dominicans  of  Saint  Bartholomew. 
Saint  Thomas's,  was,  in  the  first  instance,  a  hospital  for 
converts  and  poor  children,  founded  as  the  Almonry  by 


THE  INVALID'S  WORLD  41 

Richard,  a  Norman  prior  of  Bermondsey.  Peter  de  Rupi- 
bus,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  soon  afterward  converted  it 
into  a  priory,  and  endowed  it  handsomely.  In  the  time 
of  Henry  the  Eighth  (who  had  enlarged  and  aided  Saint 
Bartholomew's)  it  fell  to  the  crown,  and  Edward  the 
Sixth,  with  the  help  of  the  citizens,  founded  it  as  it  now 
stands,  and  dedicated  it  to  Saint  Thomas  the  Apostle  vice 
Saint  Thomas  a  Becket.  Such  was  the  transition  of  sick 
hospitals  in  this  country  from  monastic  into  purely  medi- 
cal control.  The  story  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  in  Paris  is  the 
story  of  the  development  of  the  Hospital  system  in  coun- 
tries that  have  remained  under  the  discipline  of  the 
Roman  Church.  Founded  in  very  remote  times — as  early 
as  the  year  660,  by  Landry,  Bishop  of  Paris,  endowed  and 
enriched  by  successive  generations  of  kings  and  citizens, 
it  now  owns  whole  streets  of  Paris,  and  is  probably 
the  wealthiest  foundation  of  its  kind  in  Europe.  It  is 
also,  as  everybody  knows,  one  of  the  very  best  sick  hos- 
pitals existing.  Of  such  history  we  say  no  more.  It  has 
been  enough  for  us  to  show  how  intimately  the  birth 
of  the  Hospital  System  is  connected  with  the  great  event 
we  celebrate  at  Christmas.  They  exist,  indeed,  literally 
and  perfectly  as  a  part  of  Christmas  hospitality. 

We  have  none  heartier.  No  institutions  in  this  coun- 
try, maintained  by  public  funds,  are  managed  with  a 
stricter  reference  to  the  end  proposed  in  their  founda- 
tion, than  the  hospitals  for  the  sick  in  London,  Edin- 
burgh, Dublin,  and  the  chief  provincial  towns.  Not  very 
many  of  them  are  endowed.  Most  of  them,  overwhelmed 
by  applications  from  unhappy  creatures  who  beg  for 
relief  when  in  the  sorest  need,  strain  to  the  utmost  their 
powers  of  usefulness,  and  even  spend  by  anticipation  the 
increased  help  which  the  public  will  be  asked  to  give. 
The  English  public  very  rarely  fails  to  meet  such  bills 
drawn,  not  dishonestly,  on  its  benevolence.  Let  us  be 
just  enough,  before  we  pass  further,  to  say  that  the  main- 
stay of  the  European  hospital  system  as  it  now  exists — 
no  longer  in  charge  of  the  monks — is  the  right-minded 
liberality  of  the  medical  profession.  Hospitals  for  the 


42  THE   INN   OF  REST 

sick  are  practically  entrusted  altogether  to  the  control 
of  this  body  of  men ;  which  might  have  mismanaged  its 
trust,  but  has  not  done  so.  It  has  foregone  every  mean 
advantage  and  seized  only  a  noble  one.  Using  the 
masses  of  disease  brought  together  in  these  great  es- 
tablishments as  means  of  study,  for  the  sake  of  experience 
that  can  be  acquired  in  them  by  skilled  men,  and  of  the 
practical  knowledge  that  can  be  imparted  to  the  stu- 
dent, the  profession  undertakes,  gratuitously,  to  supply 
them  with  the  best  attendance  that  its  ranks  can  fur- 
nish, to  watch  over  them  jealously,  and  to  protect  them 
with  all  its  might  against  the  black  spirit  of  jobbing. 
There  are  many  littlenesses  manifested  in  the  medi- 
cal profession ;  but  this  is  a  greatness.  The  relation  in 
which  it  stands  to  the  hospital  system  throughout  Eu- 
rope, forms  indeed  one  of  the  best  features  of  modern 
civilized  society. 

There  are  also  many  phrases  cherished  by  the  nation 
and  inscribed  by  it  on  flags  of  triumph,  which  are  not 
so  generally  glorious  as  the  inscription  commonly 
seen  running  across  the  walls  of  a  great  hos- 
pital— Supported  by  Voluntary  Contributions.  How 
large  a  mass  of  quiet  charity,  exerted  year  by 
year,  keeps  every  such  establishment  in  action! 


THE  GIBSON  PLAY 

Marguerite  Merrington 


Author  of  Mr.  E.  H.  Sothern's  Play,  "Captain  Lettarblair " ; 
"The  'Crawford'  Play,"  etc. 


A  Two-Act  Comedy  Based  Upon  Mr.  Charles  Dana  Gib- 
son's Series  of  Pictures  of  "A  Widow  and  Her 
Friends,"  Published  in  Life,  Made  with  the 
Full  Permission  of  Mr.  Gibson. 


THE   GIBSON   PLAY  45 


PEOPLE    OP   THE  PLAY. 

THE  WIDOW,  ELINOR  GARY,  a  Gibson  Girl. 

THE  AUTHORESS,  ARABELLA  BABBLES,  tOO  StOUt  tO  be   a  Gib- 

son  Girl. 

THE  SUITORS,   MR.    SLOCUM,   M.    VALLONVILLE,   MR.    POOR,   MR. 
ASHBURTON. 

THE  LAWYER,  KATE  HOOD,  another  Gibson  Girl. 

THE  DOCTOR,  DOCTOR  BOTTLES. 

THE  MAID,  ROSINE. 

THE  LOVER,  FREDDIE  MARSHALL. 

Time,  the  present. 
Costumes,  the  latest  mode. 

THE    FIRST    ACT. 

(Discovered,  ROSINE,  at  table,  opening  florist's  boxes.) 

ROSINE:  Carnations,  lilies,  violets,  and  roses — as 
usual !  And  as  usual  Madam  orders  them  to  be  sent  to  hos- 
pitals. This  perpetual  mourning  is  grating  on  my  nerves. 
If  Mrs.  Gary  doesn't  soon  begin  to  take  notice  I  shall  give 
warning.  It  injures  one's  self-respect  to  stay  in  a  place 
where  the  drawing-room  furnishes  no  material  whatever  for 
conversation  in  the  kitchen.  (Ring  at  front  door.)  There's 
carnations  now!  And  I've  got  to  tell  the  poor  dear  man 
that  Mrs.  Gary  is  not  at  home.  What  if  I — dare  I  ? — yes ;  I 
will !  (Hastily  turns  man's  portrait  face  down  on  table  and 
places  carnations  in  vase  by  woman's  portrait.)  There! 
(Ring  repeated.)  Coming,  coming!  (Takes  salver  and 
goes  to  door.)  It's  for  your  own  good  I'm  keeping  you. 
(Opens  door.) 

MR.  SLOCUM  (at  door):    Mrs.  Cary — ? 

ROSINE:     Not  at  home,  sir!     (Receives  card.)     But, 
of  course,  you  know  that  that  is  mere  fiction. 

MR.    SLOCUM    (amased) :     Eh?      (Enters.)      What! 


46  THE  INN   OF  REST 

Gary's  photograph  turned  down,  and  my  flowers  beside 
hers! 

ROSINE  (closes  door  behind  him)  :  As  you  say,  Mr. 
Slocum,  it  is  significant ! 

MR.  SLOCUM:  Significant  1  I  should  say  so!  (Ar- 
ranges flowers.)  I  wish  I'd  sent  her  the  full  dozen !  (Takes 
rose  from  a  box  and  adds  to  carnations.)  There,  that  fills 
them  out!  Tell  her  I'm  here!  Yes,  yes  (as  ROSINE  hesi- 
tates), I'll — as  future  master  of  the  house — take  the  respon- 
sibility. 

ROSINE:    Very  well,  sir.     (Ring.) 

MR.  SLOCUM  (ay  ROSINE  goes  toward  door)  :  Wait ! 
Get  rid  of  the  other  fellow,  first!  It  might  create  envy! 
(Tiptoes  into  library  singing  Wedding  March.) 

ROSINE  (alone)  :  Envy!  ha,  ha,  ha!  (Ring  repeated  in 
nervous  jerks.)  Now  for  lilies.  (Substitutes  lilies-of-the- 
valley  for  carnations.)  Don't  do  that!  (as  rings  are  re- 
peated.) You  make  me  nervous!  (Opens  door.) 

M.  VALLONVILLE  (at  door) :  Madame  ze  Vidow 
Gary —  ?  ( Gives  card. ) 

ROSINE  :  Not  receiving,  sir — which  is  only  an  English 
idiom. 

M.  VALLONVILLE  (amazed)  :  Mais  certainment !  (En- 
ters. )  Quoi  done !  My  leelies ! 

ROSINE  :    Monsieur,  you  are  quite  right ;  it  is  marked ! 

M.  VALLONVILLE:  She  notice  zem  at  last — my  leelies, 
so  pure,  and  so  expenseef !  (Adding  rose  to  lilies.)  An- 
nounce me  to  Madame !  Yes,  I  absolve  you ;  as  head  of  the 
household  I  absolve  you.  (Ring.)  Vait!  A  rival!  I  con- 
ceal myself,  lest  I  kill  him!  (Skips  into  library  singing 
Wedding  March.) 

ROSINE:  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Now  violets,  it's  your  turn! 
(Changing  flowers.)  If  you  do  that  (as  ring  is  repeated  in 
couplets)  I'll  send  you  to  the  hospital!  (Opens  door.) 

MR.  POOR  (at  door,  giving  card)  :  Mrs.  Gary  con- 
tinues to  see  no  one,  I  suppose? 

ROSINE:  True,  sir!  But  you  mustn't  infer  that  she 
has  lost  her  sense  of  sight. 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY  47 

MR.  POOR  (puts  on  glasses  amazed}  :  Bless  my  soull 
(Enters.)  Eh,  what's  this! 

ROSINE  :  You're  as  modest  as  your  violets,  Mr.  Poor, 
if  you  don't  call  it  pointed — pointed ! 

MR.  POOR  (adds  rose  to  violets)  :  Take  my  card!  Yes, 
yes,  I  suppose  no  one  has  a  better  right  1  (Ring.  MR.  POOR 
signs  silence  to  ROSINE  and  waddles  off  into  the  library 
singing  Wedding  March.) 

ROSINE  (alone):  Ha,  ha,  ha!  And  now  for  roses! 
(Changes  flowers;  puts  one  rose  in  vase.  Ring  continues 
without  pause.)  Coming,  coming,  coming!  (Opens  door. 
MR.  ASHBURTON  at  door  gives  card  and  turns  to  go.) 

ROSINE  :    Mrs.  Gary  begs  to  be  excused,  sir ! 

MR.  ASHBURTON  :    Quite  so ! 

ROSINE  :  Pardon,  sir,  it  is  not  quite  so !  I  am  sick  of 
these  social  metaphors. 

MR.  ASHBURTON  (puts  monocle  into  eye) :  How 
quaint.  (Entering.)  What  do  I  see  there!  Yes,  it  is  my 
roses,  or  more  truly,  it  is  my  rose. 

ROSINE:  Conspicuous,  indeed,  Mr.  Ashburton!  It's 
not  my  place  to  supply  Madam's  callers  with  adjectives,*  but 
in  a  witness-box  I  should  swear  that  it  is  conspicuous. 

MR.  ASHBURTON  :    Tell  her  I'm  here.     (Sits  at  piano.) 

ROSINE  (removes  rose  from  vase)  :    At  your  own  risk ! 

MR.  ASHBURTON  :  Of  course ;  every  man  marries  at  his 
own  risk.  (Picks  out  Wedding  March  on  piano.  The  other 
SUITORS  enter  from  library  and  look  at  him  inquiringly.) 

ROSINE  (with  four  cards  on  salver)  :  Gentlemen,  I 
may  have  to  keep  you  waiting.  Doctor  Bottles  is  with 
Madam;  also  the  famous  authoress,  Miss  Babbles,  is  read- 
ing to  her. 

SUITORS  signify  assent;  ROSINE  exit,  screen.  A  pause 
follows,  during  which  SUITORS  assume  proprietary  attitudes, 
each  glaring  angrily  at  the  others.  MR.  ASHBURTON  strums 
Wedding  March,  MR.  POOR  hums  it,  MR.  SLOCUM  whistles 
it,  and  M.  VALLONVILLE  tattoos  it  on  hat  with  cane. 

ROSINE  (entering,  screen) :  I  am  very  sorry,  gentle- 
men! There  is  some  misunderstanding!  Mrs.  Gary 


48  THE  INN  OF  REST 

SUITORS  (together) :  I  understand!  (They  prepare 
to  go.  Imperative  ring;  the  SUITORS  pause,  while 
ROSINE  opens  door.  FREDDIE  MARSHALL  enters.) 

ROSINE  (preventing  him) :  Pardon,  Mr.  Marshall,  but 
Mrs.  Gary 

MR.  SLOCUM  :    Is  not  at  home ! 

M.  VALLONVILLE:    Does  not  receive! 

MR.  POOR:    Sees  no  one! 

MR.  ASHBURTON  :    Begs  to  be  excused ! 

FREDDIE  glares  at  them  angrily,  strides  into  library. 
SUITORS  exclaim  amazed. 

MR.  POOR  (oratorically)  :    The  time  has  come  to  speak! 

M.  VALLONVILLE  :     But  we  have  not  been  introduced ! 

MR.  ASHBURTON:  Hang  ceremony!  We  have  met 
here  daily  for  three  months,  ever  since  that  memorable  night 
we  spent  on  yonder  doorstep,  each  waiting  to  be  first  to 
offer  condolences  to  the  widow. 

All  bow,  hand  on  heart,  repeating,  "The  Widow !" 

MR.  POOR:  The  errand  of  each  is  the  same — the 
Widow!  (All  repeat,  "The  Widow!")  When,  lo!  enter, 
with  masterful  air,  a  stranger!  (Shakes  finger  toward 
library.)  We  must  combine  against  this  stranger!  We 
must  form  a  syndicate — a  Widow  Trust! 

ALL  :    Excellent !    A  Widow  Trust ! 

MR.  ASHBURTON  :  But  she  can't  marry  all  four  of  us, 
you  know. 

MR.  POOR  :    She  shall  choose  from  among  us ! 

MR.  SLOCUM  :  But  how  can  we  read  her  inclinations 
when  she  always  is  not  at  home? 

MR.  POOR:  Gentlemen,  it  is  evident  we  need  an  ac- 
complice. The  maid  seems  exceptionally  bright. 

ROSINE  (advancing)  :  Well,  sir,  you  see  I  was  born 
in  Boston — though  I  call  myself  Rosine,  like  a  toilet  prepar- 
ation, else  no  lady  would  trust  me  with  her  hair.  Gentle- 
men, leave  it  to  me!  When  Madam  takes  her  daily  drive 
you  can  learn  the  state  of  her  inclinations  according  as  she 
wears  carnations,  lilies,  violets  t  or  roses. 

SUITORS:    Superb  idea!    Hurrah! 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY  49 

They  join  hands  and  dance  around  table,  singing  the 
Wedding  March  in  different  keys.  FREDDIE  MARSHALL  ut- 
ters angry  exclamation  and  overturns  chair  in  library. 
SUITORS  steal  off  by  front  door,  singing  under  breath. 

FREDDIE  (comes  from  library,  and  watches  them  from 
•window)  :  Fools !  I  suppose  they  want  to  marry  her !  And 
no  doubt  she  encourages  them,  as  she  did  me,  and  will  break 
their  hearts,  as  she  has  broken  mine.  (Sighs.) 

KATE  HOOD  (in  lawyer's  cap  and  gown,  coming  down 
stairs)  :  I  wonder  if  I  can't  help  mend  that  broken  heart — 
Mr.  Marshall! 

FREDDIE  (turns)  :    Miss  Hood!    (They  shake  hands.) 

KATE:  I  asked  you  to  call  on  a  business  matter  con- 
nected with  Mrs.  Gary's  estate.  (Sits  at  table.)  Well — are 
you  in  such  a  desperate  hurry  to  get  back  to  South  Africa  ? 

FREDDIE    (moving  about  restlessly) :    Yes ! 

KATE:    Ah,  then  you  still  love  her! 

FREDDIE:  What  has  that  to  do  with  this  business  mat- 
ter? 

KATE:  Everything!  The  estate  you  are  to  inherit  on 
your  thirtieth  birthday  has  a  claim  against  Elinor's  inheri- 
tance, which,  if  pressed,  may  impoverish  her. 

FREDDIE  (indignantly)  :    Then  it  sha'n't  be  pressed ! 

KATE:  But  you  have  no  power  to  prevent  it!  How- 
ever, I  see  my  way  to  a  compromise,  if  there  were  a  reason- 
able chance  that  the  two  estates  would  ultimately  be  fused. 
Mr.  Marshall,  you  love  Nellie — why  don't  you  marry  her  ? 

FREDDIE  :    Miss  Hood !    Surely  you  forget 

KATE:    I  forget  nothing! 


FREDDIE:    She  flirted  with  me  outrageously 

KATE  :    And  you  ran  away ! 

FREDDIE:    She  married  Gary 

KATE:    Let  him  rest  in  peace! 

FREDDIE:    She  doesn't  love  me 

KATE:    How  do  you  know? 

FREDDIE:  If  I  dared  hope — but,  no!  Make  any  ar- 
rangement in  my  name,  Miss  Hood,  but  please  understand 
that  I  never,  voluntarily,  will  look  upon  her  face  or  hear  her 
voice  again!  (Walks  with  decision  toward  front  door.) 


50  THE  INN  OF  REST 

WIDOW  (in  alcove,  calls)  :    Rosine ! 

FREDDIE  (pauses  at  door)  :    Her  voice  1 

WIDOW  :    Draw  the  curtains,  Rosine  1 

ROSINE  :    Yes,  Madam ! 

Draws  portieres,  disclosing  WIDOW  on  couch,  DOCTOR 
BOTTLES  and  Miss  BABBLES  sitting  beside  her. 

FREDDIE  (aside):  Elinor!  More  beautiful  than  ever! 
(Sits,  unseen  from  alcove;  KATE  retreats  toward  arch.) 

ARABELLA  (reading)  :  "And  the  moral  of  it  is,  Tis  bet- 
ter to  have  loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

WIDOW  :    Thank  you,  dear ! 

ARABELLA  :    I'm  not  tired,  dear.    Shall  I  go  on  ? 

DOCTOR  BOTTLES:  Another  time!  It  is  too  exciting 
for  our  dear  patient  here!  (Feels  WIDOW'S  pulse.) 

ARABELLA:  The  next  chapter  is  quite  soothing — al- 
most commonplace.  You  see  they're  married. 

WIDOW:     Married!   (Handkerchief  to  eyes.) 

ARABELLA:  Or  I  could  skip  to  the  sensational  part 
where  she's  free  and  the  old  lover  comes  back. 

WIDOW  (shudders')  :    Oh,  no — not  that! 

DOCTOR  :  Another  day,  Miss  Babbles.  One  must  never 
overdo  a  dose — I  mean  a  treat.  (Assists  WIDOW  to  rise; 
leads  her  forward.)  Then  it's  settled — you'll  come  to  me 
for  a  little  quiet  dinner  to-night? 

WIDOW:  Oh,  doctor,  I  should  love  to — if  you  don't 
think  it  seems — unmindful !  (Handkerchief  to  eyes.) 

DOCTOR:  My  dear  soul,  not  at  all!  Constancy  is  all 
very  well;  constancy  is  beautiful,  but  it  can  be  combined 
with  other  emotions  in  the  same  prescription.  (Looks  about. 
ROSINE  is  busy  arranging  cushions;  KATE  and  FREDDIE  are 
unseen;  ARABELLA  is  listening.)  Miss  Babbles,  won't  you 
honor  me  with  your  distinguished  autograph?  You'll  find 
pen  and  ink  in  the  library.  (Rushing  her  toward  arch.) 

ARABELLA:  Oh,  but  Doctor,  I  always  carry  a  number 
in  my  pocket!  (Produces  package.) 

DOCTOR:  But  I  want  one  written  especially  for  me — 
with  an  original  sentiment  (Pushing  her) — in  the  library. 

ARABELLA  :  Oh,  but  I  have  a  fountain  pen  in  my  pocket 
in  case  of  inspirations.  (Writes.) 


THE  GIBSON  PLAY  51 

DOCTOR  :  Mrs.  Gary — Elinor — I  can't  keep  it  from  you 
any  longer!  (Takes  her  hands.)  My  home  wants  a  head! 

WIDOW  (innocently)  :    A  head? 

FREDDIE  (disgusted,  aside)  :  I  should  say  it  did.  He 
has  none!  (Knocks  over  chair.) 

WIDOW  and  DOCTOR  (start  apart) :    What's  that! 

KATE  (steps  forward)  :  Only  a  demurrer !  I  looked 
in  on  my  way  from  court  to  settle  some  business  with  Mrs. 
Gary,  if  you'll  excuse  her,  Doctor. 

DOCTOR:  Bother!  I  mean,  with  pleasure,  Miss  Hood! 
I'll  be  back  for  you  ladies  in  half  an  hour.  (Exit  hastily.) 

ARABELLA  (pursuing  him) :  Doctor — my  autograph! 
All  right!  (Spitefully.)  I'll  change  the  sentiment ! 

WIDOW:  Well,  Kate,  what  is  it?  I'll  sign  anything 
you  please,  only  don't  expect  me  to  understand  it. 

KATE  :  My  dear  Nellie,  I  know  your  present  horror  of 
men,  but  it  is  necessary  to  this  matter  that  you  should  con- 
fer with  a  specimen.  (Leads  FREDDIE  forward.)  Permit 
me  to  introduce  to  you  the  party  of  the  second  part. 

WIDOW  (bows,  eyes  on  ground)  :    Mr.  Party ! 

KATE:  This  gentleman's  estate  has  a  claim  against 
your  estate  which  can  be  amicably  adjusted  in  a  few  min- 
utes, with  your  consent. 

WIDOW  (eyes  still  lowered)  :  It's  very  kind  of  him!  I 
consent  to  anything! 

FREDDIE  (hands  outstretched)  :  Nellie! — I  mean,  Mrs. 
Gary! 

WIDOW  (looks  up)  :    Freddie! — I  mean,  Mr.  Marshall! 

ARABELLA:    How  romantic! 

WIDOW  :    I  consider  this  a  very  unmanly  trick ! 

KATE  :  Naturally,  it  is  unmanly,  since  it  emanates  from 
me !  But  you  two  have  not  met  for  so  long — shall  we  leave 
you  to  renew  your  acquaintance? 

WIDOW:  Certainly  not!  I  wish  you  all  to  remain  so 
that  every  one  may  know  that  nothing  is  said  which  would 
not  be  said  if  no  one  were  present.  I  wish  it  understood 
that  Mr.  Marshall  is  nothing  to  me ! 

FREDDIE:  I  wish  it  understood  that  Mrs.  Gary  is  less 
than  nothing  to  me — several  degrees  below  zero! 


52 

WIDOW:  You  all  hear  that!  His  old  disagreeable 
way! 

FREDDIE:  Nellie  darling! — I  wish  it  understood  that 
when  I  say  "Nellie  darling,"  it  is  merely  from  force  of 
habit — an  old,  bad  habit. 

WIDOW  :  If  Mr.  Marshall  has  any  compromise  to  offer 
I  refuse  to  accept  it ! 

FREDDIE  :  I  refuse  to  accept  Mrs.  Gary's  refusal  to  ac- 
cept my  compromise. 

WIDOW:  I  refuse  to  accept  his  refusal  of  my  refusal 
to  accept  his  compromise. 

KATE  :  My  dear,  be  reasonable !  What  if  the  alterna- 
tive were  destitution ! 

WIDOW  :    I'm  not  afraid  of  poverty. 

ARABELLA:  You've  never  tried  it.  You're  not  an 
authoress  !  ( Sadly. ) 

ROSINE:     Oh,  Madam!     No  more  Paris  frocks! 

WIDOW  :  One  plain  black  dress  will  last  me  for  the  re- 
mainder of  my  days.  Rosine  can  alter  the  sleeves  as  the 
fashions  change. 

KATE  :    But,  Nellie,  you  won't  be  able  to  afford  a  maid. 

WIDOW  :  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  without  Rosine !  Besides  I 
can  earn  money.  I  can  sell  cake  to  the  Woman's  Exchange. 
Cook  can  show  me  how  to  make  it.  We  need  discuss  it  no 
further.  Rosine,  bring  my  bonnet  and  wraps;  it's  almost 
time  for  the  Doctor.  (  ROSINE  brings  bonnets  and  wraps  to 
WIDOW  and  ARABELLA.) 

KATE  :  There  is  one  aspect  we  have  not  considered.  If 
we  contest  this  case  successfully  we  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  ruining  Mr.  Marshall. 

WIDOW:  Oh,  Kate!  How  mean  of  you  to  think  I 
should  find  that  a  pleasure.  I'd  sooner  give  in ! 

FREDDIE  :  I  absolutely  refuse  to  accept  any  concessions 
from  Mrs.  Gary.  I  prefer  to  let  her  ruin  me. 

WIDOW  :  I  refuse  to  ruin  you !  Not  because  it's  you ; 
but  just  as  I  should  refuse  to  ruin  a  beggar  in  the  street ! 

KATE:  Then  you  shall  have  to  meet  each  other  half 
way!  (Has  written  on  paper.)  Here  is  an  agreement  that 
will  solve  the  difficulty.  Please  look  over  it. 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY  53 

WIDOW  (tying  bonnet)  :  I  shouldn't  understand  it  if 
I  did. 

FREDDIE  (reads)  :    But  it  gives  all  the  advantage  to  me ! 

WIDOW  :    I  prefer  it  so.    My  gloves,  Rosine ! 

FREDDIE:  Really,  Mrs.  Gary,  I  can't  accept  the  sacri- 
fice! 

WIDOW  :  Sign  it !  Sign  it !  He  always  did  want  the 
last  word!  (Freddie  signs.) 

KATE  :    Now,  Elinor,  please  read  it  before  you  sign ! 

WIDOW  (takes  pen)  :  No  need  to!  I'm  more  than  sat- 
isfied if  I  have  annoyed  Mr.  Marshall  by  putting  him  under 
obligations  to  me !  (Signs.) 

Ring.  ROSINE  admits  DOCTOR  BOTTLES.  SUITORS  ap- 
pear, looking  in  at  window  which  they  open  stealthily. 

DOCTOR  :    Are  you  ready,  my — my  dear  ? 

WIDOW  :  Quite  ready,  Doctor !  We  have  just  disposed 
of  some  tiresome  business.  Bring  me  some  flowers,  Rosine ! 
( ROSINE  brings  carnations, lilies,  violets, and  roses,  and  pins 
them  on  WIDOW.) 

MR.  SLOCUM  :    My  carnations ! 

M.  VALLONVILLE:    My  leelies! 

MR.  POOR:     My  violets! 

MR.  ASHBURTON:    My  roses! 

They  leap  in  at  window  and  fall  on  their  knees  before 
WIDOW,  proposing  to  her  all  at  the  same  time. 

DOCTOR  (advancing)  :  Gentlemen,  this  lady  is  under 
my  protection ! 

FREDDIE  (rushes  forward  with  paper)  :  Mrs.  Gary  is 
under  my  protection ! 

ALL  :    Yours ! 

FREDDIE  :  Over  her  own  signature — for  the  next  three 
months — Mrs.  Gary  is  engaged  to  me!  (Waves  paper.) 

WIDOW  (shrieks)  :    Freddie ! 

Faints  in  arms  of  KATE  and  ROSINE.  ARABELLA  faints 
in  arms  of  DOCTOR  BOTTLES,  who  puts  her  in  chair.  SUITORS 
groan. 

End  of  First  Act. 


54  THE  INN  OF  REST 

THE  SECOND  ACT. 

Discovered:  WIDOW,  ARABELLA,  DOCTOR,  removing 
wraps.  ROSINE  kneeling  by  open  trunk.  Bicycle,  golf  out' 
fit,  fishing-rods,  easel,  stacked  in  corners. 

DOCTOR:    An  ideal  spot!    All  scenery  and  solitude! 

ROSINE  (aside,  disgusted}  :    Solitude ! 

ARABELLA  (at  window)  :  Ah,  the  dear  scenery — where 
every  prospect  pleases  and  there  are  no  men  to  offend ! 

WIDOW  (anxiously)  :    You  are  sure  there  are  no  men! 

DOCTOR  :  Not  a  sign  of  one.  I  ascertained  that  before 
we  came. 

ROSINE:    What  dress  will  Madam  wear  to-night? 

WIDOW  :  Oh  anything !  Since  there's  no  one  to  see  I 
might  wear  out  that  unbecoming  black.  ( ROSINE  unpacks 
dress,  exit  R.  i.) 

WIDOW  :    You  don't  think  any  one  could  find  us  here  ? 

DOCTOR:  My  dear,  impossible!  We  came  by  such  a 
roundabout  way — and  we  left  no  address! 

Enter  ROSINE  with  florist's  boxes. 

ROSINE:  Madam — here  is  a  surprise!  (Shows  flow- 
ers.) 

WIDOW:    Why — how  mysterious! 

ROSINE:  Mysterious,  indeed!  (Aside.)  They  must 
have  received  my  postal  cards ! 

ARABELLA:   Highly  improper — since  you  are  engaged! 

WIDOW:   You   forget — my   engagement   ends   to-day! 

ARABELLA  :  Still,  since  you  are  renouncing  men,  don't 
you  think  you  should  return  them? 

WIDOW:  Oh,  no!  Rosine  can  give  them  to  the 
patients ! 

ROSINE:   What  patients,  Madam? 

WIDOW  :   Don't  you  know  that  this  is  a  sanatorium  ? 

DOCTOR:  My  dear,  I  forgot  to  mention  the  landlady 
says  the  place  is  so  healthy  that  the  last  batch  of  invalids 
went  home  cured. 

WIDOW:  Why,  Doctor!  How,  without  invalids,  can 
I  study  nursing? 

DOCTOR  (takes  WIDOW'S  hand)  :    Theory  comes  before 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY,  55 

practice.  I  shall  instruct  you  daily  from  the  manual,  and 
then — (aside)  I  shall  fall  ill  myself. 

WIDOW  :  Let's  begin !  I'll  put  on  my  nurse's  uniform, 
to  get  into  the  atmosphere! 

ROSINE  unpacks  uniform. 

ARABELLA  (at  window)  :  Gracious — four  men  coming 
up  the  road.  (Sensation.)  I  wonder  who  they  are! 

ROSINE  (aside):  My  postal  cards!  Carnations,  vio- 
lets, lilies, and  roses! 

WIDOW:    Probably  they  are  invalids! 

ARABELLA:  Invalids!  Golf,  fishing-rod,  tandem  and 
easel ! 

DOCTOR  (looking  through  field-glass)  :  Invalids !  They 
are  tourists !  I'll  bribe  the  landlady  not  to  let  them  in. 

WIDOW  (detains  him)  :  Oh,  no!  with  golf  and  wheels 
there  may  be  accidents  and  invalids.  Besides  I  must  get 
accustomed  to  the  sight  of  men — in  groups!  (Exit  R.  I, 
followed  by  ROSINE  with  uniform.) 

DOCTOR:  I'll  bribe  the  landlady  to  board  them  at  the 
second  table,  and  lodge  them  in  the  barn !  (Exit  R.  2.) 

ARABELLA:  If  they  attempt  to  make  our  acquaintance 
I'll  talk  to  them!  (Exit  R.  2.) 

Enter  L.  i.  SUITORS.  Each  one  carries  a  traveling-case 
and  rifle;  MR.  SLOCUM  also  has  rod;  M.  VALLONVILLE 
pushes  tandem;  MR.  POOR  carries  golf  outfit;  MR.  ASH- 
BURTON  has  easel,  artist's  umbrella  and  camp  stool.  They 
pant,  exhausted. 

MR.  SLOCUM  :   Here  we  are  at  last ! 

M.  VALLONVILLE  (points  to  flowers)  :  We  are  here 
already ! 

MR.  POOR  (indicates  WIDOW'S  hat)  :  Here  she  is ! 

MR.  ASHBURTON  (indicates  ARABELLA'S  and  DOCTOR'S 
'hats)  :  Here  they  are ! 

Enter  ROSINE. 

SUITORS:    And  here's  Rosine! 

ROSINE  (exclaims):  What  a  surprise!  (All  laugh. 
SUITORS  set  down  burdens. ) 

ROSINE  (nervous)  :  But — those  guns !  Mrs.  Gary  is 
terribly  afraid  of  firearms. 


56  THE  INN  OF  REST 

SUITORS:  So  are  we!  They  are  only  loaded  with 
harmless  cartridges. 

WIDOW'S  voice  within,  calling  ROSINE. 

ALL  SUITORS:  The  Widow!   (bow;  hand  on  heart.} 

ROSINE:  Gentlemen,  a  hint!  This  is  a  sanatorium. 
(Points  to  screen.) 

SUITORS  :  A  sanatorium ! 

ROSINE:   And  Mrs.  Gary  is  head  nurse! 

SUITORS:   Head  nurse — Mrs.  Gary! 

ROSINE:  What  a  pity  that  you  gentlemen  enjoy  such 
robust  health!  (Exit  R.  I.  carrying  dresses.) 

MR.  POOR:    I  move  that  we  are  all  very  ill! 

SUITORS:    Carried!     We  are  all  very  ill! 

Join  hands  and  dance  around  table,  singing  Wedding 
March.  DOCTOR  is  heard  speaking  to  ARABELLA.  SUITORS 
make  signs,  and  steal  on  tiptoe  behind  screen. 

(Enter  R.  2.  DOCTOR  and  ARABELLA.  Enter  R.  i. 
ROSINE  carrying  hot-water  bags  on  tray.  Enter  L.  i.  KATE 
and  FREDDIE,  who  draw  back  into  shadows  of  curtains.  En- 
ter R.  i.  WIDOW  in  nurse's  uniform.  SUITORS'  heads  seen 
above  screen.) 

DOCTOR:  Now,  we  will  begin  with  a  few  simple  rules. 
(Takes  WIDOW'S  hand.  Looks  around.)  Miss  Babbles, 
have  you  admired  the  scenery?  (Pushes  her  toward  win- 
dow.) Count  the  mountains!  (Returns  to  WIDOW.) 

ARABELLA:   But,  Doctor — there's  only  one! 

DOCTOR  (pushing  her  back)  :  Well  count  it,  count  it! 
And  then  count  the  pines !  Now,  I  am  the  patient !  (Pulls 
armchair  to  centre.)  I  sit  here!  But  the  nurse  must  not 
fatigue  herself!  (Pulls  up  small  chair.)  You  sit  by  me! 
Now,  let  me  feel  your  pulse ! 

WIDOW:   I  thought  you  were  the  patient! 

DOCTOR  :  To  be  sure !  Feel  my  pulse !  Keep  on  feel- 
ing it  while  Miss  Babbles  slowly  counts  a  hundred  pines! 
(SUITORS  show  jealousy.)  Excellent!  Do  that  frequently. 
(Draws  manual  from  pocket.)  To  this  manual  I  have 
added  a  few  directions  for  the  particular  kind  of  nurse  I 
want  you  to  be.  Begin  with  the  chapter  headed  Sympathy. 

WIDOW    (reads)  :   "Show   a  tender   interest   in   your 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY  57 

patient's  welfare.  Love  your  patient."  (DOCTOR  smiles 
complacently,  and  the  SUITORS  show  jealousy.) 

DOCTOR:  Now  I'll  slip  into  bed  that  you  may  prac- 
tice soothing  an  anguished  brow!  (Goes  behind  screen. 
SUITORS'  heads  disappear  over  screen.  They  groan. ) 

WIDOW  :    What's  that ! 

ROSINE  :  The  patients,  Madam !  Four  gentlemen  have 
just  arrived  in  a  terrible  state  of  nervous  protestation,  com- 
plicated with  disorder  of  the  heart!  (Draws  screen  aside, 
disclosing  roiv  of  cot  beds,  containing  SUITORS  and  DOCTOR, 
fully  dressed.  SUITORS  duck  under  bedclothes.) 

WIDOW  (claps  hands):  Oh,  some  real,  live  invalids! 
Let's  see.  (Opens  manual.)  Sympathy!  I  sympathize 
with  you  all!  Let  me  feel  your  pulses!  (Goes  to  each, 
feeling  pulse,  smoothing  pillow,  etc.) 

DOCTOR  :  Mrs.  Gary,  you  are  forgetting  my  anguished 
brow! 

WIDOW:  Oh,  but  Doctor,  you  are  only  make-believe 
ill,  while  these  poor  souls — just  listen  to  them!  (Suitors 
groan.)  Here  are  some  blossoms!  (Distributes  flowers.) 
I  take  the  tenderest  interest  in  your  welfare. 

DOCTOR:    That  is  not  necessary,  Mrs.  Gary! 

WIDOW:  The  manual  says  so.  (Reads.)  "I  love  you!" 
(SUITORS  chuckle.) 

DOCTOR  :      Hot-water  bags  would  be  better ! 

WIDOW:  What,  on  the  anguished  brow?  (Puts  hot- 
water  bag  on  Doctor's  head;  he  yells  with  pain;  SUITORS 
roar  with  laughter.) 

DOCTOR  (rising)  :  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Gary!  »We  will 
leave  Miss  Babbles  in  charge  while  I  take  you  for  a  drive. 

MR.  SLOCUM  (sits  up)  :    I  object! 

(Sensation.) 

MR.  ASHBURTON  (sits  up)  ;  Oh,  how-de-do,  Mrs.  Gary! 

MR.  POOR  (sits  up)  :  Circumstances  prevent  my  ris- 
ing to  explain,  but — 

M.  VALLONVILLE  (sits  up)  :  Ze  buggee  and  ze  horse, 
we  will  hire  him  forevair! 

DOCTOR:   You  gentlemen  are  far  too  ill  to  drive.   Be- 


58  THE  INN   OF   REST 

sides,  the  Doctor  takes  precedence  of  the  patients!  Come, 
my  dear! 

FREDDIE  (bursts  in)  :  Pardon,  sir!  I  have  just  bought 
the  horse  and  buggy!  (Sensation.)  Mrs.  Gary — Elinor — 
our  engagement  lasts  just  three  minutes  longer!  Let  me 
drive  you  to  the  minister's.  (Sensation.) 

WIDOW  :    Three  minutes ! 

FREDDIE:    Yes,  dearest.     Come! 

DOCTOR  (watch  out)  :   Only  two  now! 

WIDOW:  Will  Doctor  count  a  hundred  and  twenty 
pines!  (Doctor  does  so.) 

SUITORS  :    Time's  up !    She's  free ! 

WIDOW:  Mr.  Marshall,  your  present  conduct  is  on  a 
par  with  all  your  conduct! 

SUITORS  :   Hurrah ! 

WIDOW  :  Silence !  You  are  not  worth  my  anger ! 
(SUITORS  duck  beneath  bedclothes.  DOCTOR  chuckles.)  You, 
too  (to  DOCTOR).  You  have  not  always  been  sincere  with 
me!  (DOCTOR  subsides)  though  your  intentions  have  been 
kind.  But  as  for  Mr.  Marshall — No,  Kate  (to  KATE,  who 
steps  forward),  you  need  not  defend  him!  You,  too,  have 
treated  me  as  a  mere  puppet — a  paper  doll !  Oh  I  know  you 
will  say  it  was  to  save  my  fortune,  but  do  you  think  I  would 
knowingly  have  saved  it  at  such  a  price?  Now,  Mr.  Mar- 
shall, we  will  say  farewell,  please!  I  trust  you  will  meet 
with  some  nice,  sensible  girl,  who  will  make  you  a  kind, 
forbearing  wife.  No,  don't  pretend  that  you  care  for  me! 
(as  FREDDIE  is  about  to  step  forward).  And  don't  ever  de- 
ceive yourself  with  the  idea  that  I  ever  have  cared  for  you ! 
— I — I  never  wish  to  look  upon  the  face  of  man  again. 
(Exit  in  burst  of  tears  R.  I.  followed  by  ROSINE.  SUITORS 
and  DOCTOR  groan.) 

(Supper  bell  is  rung  loud,  off  rear.) 

SUITORS  :    Supper ! 

DOCTOR:  The  patients  cannot  take  solid  food.  Till 
further  orders  the  patients  need  not  eat.  (They  groan. 
Exit  R.  ^.) 

(Loud  groans  from  SUITORS,  who  are  seen  skipping 
off  R.  2,  pursued  by  ARABELLA.) 


THE  GIBSON   PLAY  59 

KATE  (hand  on  Freddie's  arm}  :    Come! 

FREDDIE  :  I'm  not  hungry !  I've  been  a  perfect  brute  I 
And  she  will  never  forgive  me !  She  oughtn't  to. 

KATE:  Perhaps  if  she  thinks  she  oughtn't  to  she  will! 
Well,  thank  Heaven,  I'm  not  in  love !  I'm  hungry !  (Exit 

R.2.) 

FREDDIE  (goes  to  door  R.  I.  kneels  and  kisses  keyhole) : 
Good-by!  (Exit  L.  i.) 

Enter  R.  2.  DOCTOR  with  traveling  case,  etc.  He  takes 
hat,  etc.,  shakes  hands  mournfully,  and  exit  L.  i. 

(Enter  R.  2,  SUITORS.     They  collect  baggage.) 

MR.  POOR:  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  I  never  advised 
our  coming. 

MR.  SLOCUM  :  The  train  doesn't  start  till  midnight. 
Well,  we  can  wait  in  the  station. 

(Enter  R.  i.  ROSINE.) 

ROSINE:    What,  gentlemen!    Going? 

M.  VALLONVILLE:  Going — and  no  blood  shed!  (Re- 
gretfully.) 

MR.  ASHBURTON:  Our  adieus  to  the  Widow!  (All 
repeat,  "The  Widow.") 

M.  VALLONVILLE:  Why  not  one  serenade?  I  sing  ze 
refrain ;  you  all  ze  chorus. 

( SUITORS  quarrel,  and  all  talk  at  same  time.) 

ROSINE:  Gentlemen,  suppose  we  agree  on  this:  If 
Madam  mentions  any  one  of  you  with  regret  between  now 
and  midnight  I  will  throw  his  flower  out  of  the  window  as 
a  signal  for  him  to  sing. 

SUITORS  :  Agreed !  (Exit  L.  i.  mournfully  humming 
Wedding  March.) 

FREDDIE  (entering  L.  2.)  :  Train  doesn't  start  till  mid- 
night. Might  as  well  wait  here! 

(Sits  in  arm  chair  behind  screen,  and  yawns.) 

(Enter  R.  i.  WIDOW  in  fine  evening  dress,  followed  by 
ARABELLA  and  KATE.) 

WIDOW  :   Where  are  the  gentlemen  ? 

ROSINE:     Gone,  Madam! 

WIDOW:   Oh! — and  the  Doctor? 

ROSINE:    Gone,  Madam! 


60  THE  INN   OF  REST 

WIDOW  (blankly) :  Oh!  Of  course,  Mr.  Marshall  has 
gone! 

ROSINE:  Oh,  of  course,  Madam!  (Exit  R.  2.  FRED- 
DIE, unseen,  peeps  from  screen,  yawns  and  withdraws.) 

WIDOW  :  How  nice !  Now  we  shall  have  a  lovely  time 
by  ourselves. 

KATE:  Four  women  alone  in  a  desert!  Yes,  isn't  it 
nice!  (Pause.) 

WIDOW  :  I  suppose  we  can  hire  a  boy  to  bait  our  fish- 
hooks and  scare  away  the  cows  when  we  are  sketching! 

KATE:  Oh,  no!  Boys  remind  one  so  unpleasantly  of 
men! 

WIDOW:  True!  (Yawns.)  Why  (looks  at  clock) 
it's  eight  o'clock !  I  shall  go  to  bed ! 

ARABELLA  :  There  are  none  but  women  in  the  house — 
the  landlady  and  her  daughter  both  are  women,  you  know ! 
Do  you  think  it  is  safe?  (All  shudder.) 

WIDOW  (jauntily):  Oh,  of  course,  it's  safe!  The 
prospectus  said  no  mosquitoes,  mice,  malaria,  nor  burglars. 

ARABELLA:  I  don't  know  which  I  dread  most!  Provi- 
dence sent  burglars  into  this  world  to  reconcile  women  to 
men. 

Enter  R.  2.  ROSINE  with  mail.  KATE,  ARABELLA  and 
WIDOW  shriek  nervously. 

ROSINE  :  It's  only  I — with  the  mail !  (Lays  mail  down 
on  table.) 

WIDOW  (yawns)  :  Only  papers!  (Rises.)  Well,  good- 
night ! 

ARABELLA  (with  paper)  :  Oh,  Nellie,  the  meanest  thing 
about  you!  See!  (Gives  paper.) 

WIDOW  (reading)  :   The  idea !    I  didn't ! 

ARABELLA  :   You  did,  a  little,  dear ! 

KATE  (looks  over  paper)  :  Well,  there  are  no  laws 
against  flirting. 

WIDOW  :  But  I  didn't !  You  know  I'm  incapable  of  it. 
(Pause.)  You  are  all  very  unsympathetic — but  that's  only 
what  one  may  expect  from  one's  women  friends!  (A 
pause.)  Rosine,  you  can  sell  my  clothes.  I  intend  to  be  a 
deaconess. 


THE  GIBSON  PLAY,  «1 

ROSINE:  Oh,  yes,  Madam!  The  little  bonnets  are  so 
becoming.  (A  pause.) 

WIDOW  (begins  to  cry  quietly,  then  louder)  :  It's  truel 
I  am  a  shameless  flirt ! 

KATE  (comforting  her)  :   Why,  Nellie ! 

ARABELLA:  My  dear!    (Comforting  her.) 

ROSINE:    Madam!     (Comforting  her.) 

WIDOW:  No,  don't  excuse  me  to  myself!  I  deserve 
that  no  one  should  love  me ! — but  I  intend — to  be  different ! 
(Runs  to  window,  throws  out  flowers.) 

ROSINE:    Oh,  she  has  given  the  signal! 

(Singing  of  SUITORS  is  heard  approaching.  WIDOW 
and  ARABELLA  and  KATE  shriek  with  fright.  KATE  puts 
fingers  in  ears.) 

WIDOW  :  Burglars !  It's  my  fault  there  are  no  men  to 
protect  you !  But  I  will  save  you !  (Seises  one  of  the  rifles 
left  by  SUITORS  and  fires.  Shouts  heard  outside;  WIDOW 
throws  herself  moaning  into  chair  and  covers  face.  DOCTOR 
and  SUITORS  enter  by  window  and  door  L.  I.  General  agi- 
tation.) 

WIDOW:    (rises  solemnly)  :    Where  is  he? 

ALL:    Who? 

WIDOW:  The  man  I  shot!  (Sees  FREDDIE  in  chair 
asleep;  shrieks.)  Freddie!  Freddie!  I  didn't  mean  to, 
Freddie!  Do  you  hear  me,  Freddie!  (FREDDIE  opens  eyes.) 

WIDOW:  Oh,  my  darling,  tell  me  you  forgive  me! 
There,  I'll  put  my  lips  to  your  ear ! — hush !  He's  trying  to 
say  something ! 

FREDDIE:    Is  this  a  dream? 

WIDOW:  He's  wandering!  No,  my  darling,  my  only 
love,  it  is  no  dream;  it  is  the  fatal  truth. 

FREDDIE  (rising)  :  I'm  sorry — I  should  have  liked  tc 
dream  again! 

WIDOW  (realising  her  mistake):  FREDDIE!  (They 
join  hands.  ARABELLA  faints  in  DOCTOR'S  arms.)  Tableau. 


IN  A  HOSPITAL 

Edgar  Fawcett 


I  cannot  move  among  these  mournful  halls 
Where  many  a  white-lipped  sufferer  has  Iain, 
Where  life  is  one  stern  monotone  of  pain, 

Jarred  only  by  death's  ghastlier  intervals, 

But  some  new  gradual  sense  my  soul  enthralls 
And  bids  me  hold  the  ironical  disdain 
Born  of  the  pessimist  as  wildly  vain, 

Like  a  rash  curse  that  recks  not  how  it  falls. 

For  though  the  old  baffling  question  fronts  me  here 
Of  why  such  piteous  woes  at  all  should  be, — 

Of  why  fate's  bitter  laws  thus  bruise  and  ban, 
Ah,  still  one  realization,  fair  and  clear, 
Towers  up  in  monumental  sanctity — 
The  ennobling  sympathy  of  man  for  man. 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL 

P.P.  Verney 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL. 

|HERE  is  something  in  the  monotonous 
regularity  of  the  rows  of  tidy  little  white 
beds  in  a  hospital,  with  their  neat  white 
coverlets  and  the  load  of  misery  upon  each, 
which  at  first  sight  is  very  depressing.  It  is  the  wonder- 
ful variety,  however,  both  of  the  characters  of  the  in- 
mates and  of  the  ailments  treated,  that  is  their  most 
striking  characteristic  as  they  become  better  known; 
while  the  insight  there  to  be  gained  as  to  the  "manner 
and  customs"  of  the  classes  for  whose  dwellings  we  are 
now  trying  to  legislate,  is  only  too  significant  of  the 
houses  (miscalled  "homes,"  indeed)  from  which  they 
come.  The  strange  phases  of  human  nature,  and  human 
suffering  in  unimaginable  forms,  the  manner  in  which 
science  is  utilized  to  remedy  that  suffering,  and  the  care 
and  kindness  that  strive  to  alleviate  it,  make  a  large  hos- 
pital a  'most  interesting  study  of  the  best  kind  of  help. 
It  is  often  here  that  any  civilizing  influence  is  first 
brought  to  bear  on  the  sufferers,  that  they  first  experi- 
ence gentle  treatment  and  kindness,  and  come  in  contact 
with  larger  ideals. 

Here  are  a  few  experiences  during  a  few  months  in 
a  few  beds  of  a  great  town  hospital. 

No.  73  (each  occupant  is  known  by  his  number  alone) 
was  a  tall,  strong  Irishman,  a  dock  laborer,  brought  in 
violently  drunk,  wet  through,  and  with  a  very  bad  scalp 
wound.  He  had  been  helping  to  unload  a  vessel  with 
casks  of  spirits,  and  has  been  "sucking  the  monkey" — a 
favorite  dodge — when  a  hole  is  pierced  in  a  cask,  when 
it  can  be  done  unobserved,  and  the  raw  spirits  are 
sucked  out  with  a  straw.  In  this  case  the  not  unnatural 
result  had  been  that  the  man  had  fallen  into  the  river. 
The  nurses  began  to  wash  and  prepare  the  wound  for  the 


68  THE  INN  OF  REST 

doctors,  but  he  was  so  drunk  that  he  would  scarcely  let 
them  touch  him,  and  complained  bitterly  of  their  unkind- 
ness.  When  the  doctors  arrived  they  began  by  playing 
on  the  wound  with  carbolic  spray,  used  to  prevent  it  from 
growing  cold,  but  the  patient  said  that  it  spurted  into 
his  face,  he  became  violent,  and  declared  that  he  would 
not  have  anything  done  to  him,  for  they  were  using 
him  cruelly. 

The  doctor  grew  angry,  and  sent  for  the  porter  to 
help,  telling  the  man  that  he  must  either  have  his  wound 
properly  dressed  or  leave  the  hospital ;  the  threat  would 
have  been  difficult  to  carry  out,  however,  for  the  wet 
clothes  could  not  be  put  on  him,  and  there  were  no 
others  to  be  had.  The  house-surgeon  and  three  students 
were  now  standing  two  on  each  side  the  bed,  when  sud- 
denly the  patient  hit  out  with  his  powerful  arms  in  their 
drunken  strength,  threw  down  the  four  doctors — who 
being  utterly  unprepared  for  the  assault,  went  over  like 
ninepins — jumped  out  of  bed,  and  ran  across  theward  into 
the  next  in  his  hospital  shirt.  The  doctor  came  in  at 
this  moment  and  stopped  him. 

"Pretty  fellows  you  are !"  said  the  doctor.  "Why  you've 
been  so  long  in  coming  that  the  patient  might  have  flung 
himself  out  of  the  window." 

"I  fling  myself  out  of  the  window!  I  am  not  such  a 
fool.  I  am  not  going  to  hurt  myself  to  please  any  of 
you,"  laughed  the  man. 

He  was  then  got  back  into  bed,  and  the  doctor  sternly 
ordered  him  to  lie  still.  Perhaps  the  run  had  quieted  him 
to  a  certain  degree,  and  he  submitted  at  last.  The  spray, 
which  is  rather  fragrant  and  refreshing,  was  used  again, 
and  again  he  complained  angrily. 

"If  he  is  such  a  coward  as  to  'mind  that,  cover  his 
face  with  a  handkerchief,"  said  the  doctor  contemptu- 
ously. 

At  length  the  dressing  was  over,  and  he  went  to  sleep. 
The  next  morning  when  the  spirits  were  out  and  the  wits 
were  in,  he  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  his  conduct,  of 
which  he  could  only  recollect  a  small  portion,  but  was 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  69 

kindly  reminded  of  the  rest  by  the  occupants  of  the  beds 
on  both  sides.  He  became  one  of  the  best  behaved  pa- 
tients in  the  ward — tried  to  be  helpful  to  the  nurses,  and 
was  considered  "very  good  company"  by  his  neighbors, 
for  whose  delectation  and  his  own  he  used  to  dance  jigs 
and  hornpipes  as  he  grew  better.  After  he  left  the  hos- 
pital one  of  the  nurses  was  startled  one  day  by  an  un- 
recognizably dirty  man  rushing  out  of  a  group  of  other 
workmen  like  himself  to  pour  out  his  thanks  in  vehe- 
ment terms. 

I  pass  over  the  details  concerning  the  next,  which  was 
a  horrible  case  of  suicide — a  Spaniard  who  had  attempted 
to  blow  out  his  brains  in  bed  and  had  only  partly  suc- 
ceeded. He  lived  five  or  six  dreadful  hours  after  he  was 
brought  in. 

The  next  occupant  of  the  No.  73  bed  was  a  very  re- 
spectable, well-looking  young  man  who  had  gone  to  the 
Alexandra  Palace  with  a  friend  for  a  day's  pleasure.  "We 
went  about  and  about,  and  we  took  a  little  of  the  Irish 
here,  and  a  little  of  the  Irish  there,  till  we  had  too  much 
of  the  Irish,  and  we  went  on  till  the  latest  train  had  left." 
He  then  walked  back  to  London  to  a  little  street  in  the 
West  End.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
lodging-house  refused  to  admit  him,  so  he  sat  down  on 
the  step  in  a  half  drunken  sleep,  on  a  bitter  spring  night, 
to  wait  till  the  door  was  opened.  He  was  suffering  from 
a  cold,  and  the  spirits  and  the  chill  together  brought  on 
violent  inflammation  of  both  lungs  (which  is  uncommon). 
A  few  days  after  his  arrival  he  became  delirious,  and 
the  only  person  who  could  manage  him  was  a  nurse 
whom  he  took  for  some  friend  of  his  called  "Minnie." 
"Thank  God,  I  have  got  one  friend  here !"  he  kept  on  re- 
peating. He  set  his  heart  on  their  taking  an  expedition 
together.  "Now  promise  me  that  you  will  go  to  the 
Alexandra  Palace  with  me,  Minnie,  next  week."  And  as 
all  contradiction  enraged  him,  she  was  obliged  to  an- 
swer, "If  you're  well  enough  on  Monday,  I  promise  to 
go,"  which  could  be  safely  done.  Whenever  she  was 
away  he  became  extremely  violent,  and  on  one  occasion 


70  THE  INN  OF  REST 

rushed  off  trying  to  escape  from  the  ward,  pursued  by 
eight  men  and  several  of  the  nurses.  At  last  he  was  se- 
cured and  carried  to  the  padded  room  where  delirious 
patients  are  kept.  He  gave  an  account  of  what  had 
taken  place  to  "Minnie,"  and  correctly  so  far,  ending, 
however,  with — "One  man  held  a  revolver  and  the  other 
a  knife  over  me;  one  said,  'Let  us  blow  his  brains  out,' 
and  the  other,  'No,  let  us  cut  his  throat.' " 

He  was  so  heated  by  the  strait-waistcoat  that  the 
nurse,  when  she  came,  undid  it,  with  the  doctor's  per- 
mission— "If  you  think  you  can  manage  him."  The  bed 
is  on  the  floor,  and  no  chair  is  allowed  in  the  padded 
room  lest  it  should  be  used  for  aggressive  purposes,  so 
that  she  had  to  kneel  when  putting  on  jacket  poultices 
and  feeding  him.  The  friend  who  had  led  him  into  mis- 
chief came  to  see  him,  and  was  asked  to  bring  some  jelly 
to  the  patient.  "It  is  not  the  least  use,"  said  he,  "the 
nurses  will  take  it  all  away — that  is  what  they  are  here 
for!"  The  nurse,  who  had  been  extremely  kind  to  him, 
was  pained — crazy  as  she  knew  him  to  be — and  showed 
it.  When  his  visitor  was  gone  he  looked  at  her.  "Min- 
nie, why  do  you  look  so  scared?  Did  you  think  I  was 
going  to  tell  ?  No,  no ;  I  am  a  bad  one,  but  not  so  bad  as 
that!"  He  was  thankful  for  the  quiet  of  the  padded 
room,  but  it  was  very  close,  though  the  door  is  always 
left  open  that  the  nurse  may  summon  assistance.  "Oh, 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air!"  sighed  the  poor  patient  who 
was  a  Devonshire  man,  and  he  was  transferred  to  a 
small  ward,  the  nurse  undertaking  to  keep  the  peace. 

The  chaplain  attempted  to  come  to  his  help,  but  the 
sight  of  a  strange  man  made  the  patient  ungovernable, 
and  the  few  texts  and  "good  words"  which  the  nurse 
could  slip  into  the  poor  wandering  mind  was  all  that 
could  be  done  for  him.  "If  I  ever  get  over  this  I'll  lead 
a  new  life.  I'll  not  live  as  I  have  done/'  he  repeated.  He 
grew  worse  and  worse,  and  one  evening  when  she  was 
going  off  duty  he  said,  "Shake  hands,  Minnie,  I'll  never 
forget  you — good-night.  Why  will  you  leave  me?"  Her 
duty,  however,  required  her  to  go,  and  she  promised  to 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  71 

return  to  him  in  the  morning.  "I'll  try  and  live  till  you 
come  back,"  he  sighed;  but  he  never  saw  her  again,  he 
died  within  an  hour  or  two  afterwards.  He  was  so  much 
above  the  usual  level  of  the  inmates  of  the  wards  that 
his  death  made  quite  a  sensation  among  the  patients,  who 
are  generally  very  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  their  com- 
rades. 

Another  case  of  suicide  cahme  in  at  this  time;  a  poor 
woman  whose  husband  had  been  earning  from  four  to  five 
guineas  a  week,  was  suddenly  left  a  widow,  with  six  chil- 
dren, one  of  them  a  baby.  After  striving  a  little  time  to 
support  them,  she  lost  heart,  said  she  could  not  see  them 
starve,  and  drank  a  horrible  mixture,  like  vitriol,  used 
for  cleaning  lamps,  to  poison  herself.  It  burnt  the  throat 
and  stomach  in  a  fearful  manner,  but  she  was  carried  into 
the  hospital  immediately,  so  that  measures  were  taken 
to  prevent  her  death.  It  seemed  strange  that  with  so 
many  painless  modes  of  dismissal  she  should  have  taken 
one  entailing  such  frightful  suffering;  but  she  was  evi- 
dently completely  beside  herself ;  and  it  was  very  pathetic 
how  she  had  rushed  upon  her  release  without  bestowing 
a  thought  upon  the  pain  of  the  means,  "Anywhere,  any- 
where, out  of  the  world."  "Shall  I  get  over  it?"  she  said 
in  a  depressed  tone  when  she  was  beginning  to  improve — 
it  was  evidently  not  to  her  a  wished-for  ending.  Having 
been  better  off  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  coming 
down  to  being  a  pauper.  Friends,  however,  turned  up 
when  it  was  almost  too  late,  and  helped  with  the  children. 
A  policeman  was  waiting  for  her  to  take  her  before  a 
magistrate  when  she  left  the  hospital,  but  the  nurses  con- 
nived at  her  going  out  at  an  hour  when  he  was  not  there. 
And  here  the  story  ends,  how  she  faced  her  life  struggle 
again  and  with  what  results  remains  forever  unknown, 
sunk  in  the  deep  tide  of  misery  to  be  found  in  our  great 
towns.  , 

No.  47  was  a  boy  of  fifteen,  with  dreadful  fits;  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth,  he  twisted  and  twirled,  and  some- 
times threw  his  legs  into  the  air,  almost  standing  on  his 
head.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  however,  nurses  and  doc- 


7*  THE   INN   OF   REST 

tors  began  to  have  their  doubts,  the  attacks  never  came 
on  when  the  doctors  were  by,  and  the  dead  faints  never 
took  place  until  he  was  within  safe  distance  of  the  bed 
to  fall  upon.  A  little  "spine  boy"  in  the  bed  opposite 
early  suspected  him,  and  used  to  call  out,  "Go  it,  No.  47, 
you  do  it  grand ;  I  could  not  come  the  thing  half  so  well 
myself!"  The  doctors  are  extremely  cautious  in  declar- 
ing that  a  patient  is  shamming,  by  which  they  may  get 
the  hospital  into  bad  odor,  and  the  boy  was  allowed  to 
go  on  for  some  little  time.  At  last  the  doctor  called  for 
a  wet  towel,  and  gave  him  a  sharpish  flick  on  the  cheek, 
in  the  fit,  when  the  "insensible"  patient  winced,  and  the 
next  day  when,  by  the  doctor's  orders,  the  nurse  gave  him 
a  smart  cut  with  the  same  wet  towel  in  his  "dead  faint," 
he  howled  and  called  out  about  her  cruelty.  He  was  sen- 
tenced to  be  turned  out,  and  his  mother  was  sent  for ;  she 
arrived  in  a  perfect  state  of  fury  at  the  slur  cast  upon 
her  son,  declaring  that  she  would  appeal  to  the  directors, 
the  trustees,  the  police,  and  the  world  at  large — but  go 
he  did.  It  was  found  out  that  he  had  been  apprenticed, 
and  not  liking  work,  he  had  retired  on  the  hospital  as  a 
pleasant  retreat.  He  must  have  been  a  clever  boy  to 
imitate  the  symptoms  of  a  fit  so  as  to  deceive  both  doc- 
tors and  nurses  for  even  so  long. 

Drunkenness  is  the  cause  of  two-thirds  of  the  acci- 
dents, and  a  great  portion  of  the  illnesses  that  come  into 
hospitals.  No.  46  was  a  man  who  came  in  drunk,  with 
a  broken  leg,  after  an  accident.  A  kind  friend,  drunk 
like  himself,  took  him  on  his  back  to  carry  him  to  the 
hospital.  He  could  not,  however,  walk  straight,  and  fell 
with  his  burden  and  upon  him,  seriously  injuring  the 
broken  limb.  The  drinking  begins  before  breakfast,  and 
the  patients  say  to  each  other,  "I  say,  old  boy,  don't  yer 
miss  the  half-pint"  (beer  understood)  "and  the  pen'orth  ?" 
(gin,  understood). 

A  shoemaker,  with  a  good  shop  and  a  good  business, 
was  found  dead  drunk  in  the  gutter,  so  full  of  spirits 
that  he  was  dying  of  suffocation.  He  was  brought  into 
the  ward,  and  the  students,  seeing  what  was  the  matter, 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  73 

and  thoroughly  disgusted,  put  a  screen  around  him  and 
set  to  work  pumping  upon  him  with  all  their  hearts,  till 
he  was  completely  wet  through.  He  remained  two  days, 
till  his  clothes  were  dry,  calling  out  for  his  wife,  who 
came  to  see  him  with  a  beautiful  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
took  him  away;  the  future  which  probably  lay  before 
her  and  her  children  was  a  dismal  one  indeed. 

"Patients'  friends"  are  generally  a  sad  nuisance,  and 
do  much  harm.  Two  or  three  Irish  women  will  come  and 
howl  and  shriek  over  a  dying  compatriot  so  as  to  dis- 
turb the  whole  ward,  before  they  can  be  stopped.  A  ten- 
der mother  will  slip  apples  and  oranges  into  the  bed  of 
a  child  suffering  from  bad  stomach  disorders,  or  a  wife 
insinuate  a  cooked  sausage  under  the  coverlet  of  a  man 
in  the  worst  stage  of  dysentery.  Whiskey  is  the  cure 
for  all  ailments,  and  a  number  of  bottles  are  not  seldom 
detected.  The  eatables  are  put  in  the  ward  fire  in  public, 
that  it  may  not  be  supposed  that  nurses  profit  by  their 
confiscation;  the  whiskey  is  poured  out  of  the  window, 
and  the  owners  are  afmost  in  tears  at  the  "sinful  waste" 
of  the  "beautiful"  stuff  thus  recklessly  sacrificed! 

The  next  case  was  a  man  brought  in  with  throat  cut 
nearly  from  ear  to  ear.  The  surgeon  asked,  "Is  this  sui- 
cide or  murder?"  "No,  sir,  not  suicide,"  said  one  of  the 
students,  standing  by,  "it  was  one  of  his  friends  did  it 
for  him,"  at  which  there  was  a  laugh  all  round  the  bed 
except  from  the  poor  sufferer.  He  was  a  dock  laborer 
who  had  taken  a  job  at  a  lower  rate  than  a  fellow-work- 
man; his  rival  met  him  in  the  street  by  daylight,  and 
drew  a  razor  across  his  throat.  The  victim  fell  bathed 
with  blood,  but  his  enemy,  not  feeling  sure  he  had  ac- 
complished his  object  sufficiently,  gave  him  a  second  cut 
even  deeper  than  before.  The  patient  could  not  swallow, 
and  could  only  be  fed  by  a  tube  inserted  in  the  throat. 
He  was  suffering  already  from  a  bad  attack  of  bronchitis, 
and  the  doctors  had  hardly  any  hope  of  getting  him 
through.  With  the  care  and  the  skilled  nursing  he  re- 
covered, however,  "but  I  shall  never  be  my  own  man 
again,"  he  said.  Policemen  were  watching  him  day  and 


74  THE  INN   OF  REST 

night,  because  if  he  died  the  case  would  be  one  of  hang- 
ing for  his  assailant,  who  had  been  arrested  immediately. 
As  soon  as  the  patient  was  able  to  stand  he  was  taken  in 
a  carriage  to  give  his  evidence,  when  the  aggressor  was 
condemned  to  a  long  term  of  penal-rservitude. 

To  No.  57  there  came  a  great  burly  Irishman,  with  an 
enormous  lump  on  his  forehead,  his  eye  shut  up,  and  a 
blow  at  the  back  of  his  head  which  it  was  feared  might 
prove  serious.  He  said  that  he  had  fallen  from  a  scaf- 
folding, but  the  doctors  felt  quite  sure  that  the  blows  had 
been  received  in  fighting.  He  had  a  scowling,  bad  ex- 
pression, and  came  in  swearing,  dirty  as  the  ground,  his 
clothes  torn,  and  his  shoes  dropping  off  his  feet.  The 
porter  put  him  into  a  bath,  but  even  then  he  was  hardly 
fit  to  touch.  He  began  at  once  making  difficulties;  he 
was  not  used,  he  said,  to  lie  down  during  the  day.  It  was 
with  great  trouble  that  he  was  got  into  bed,  where  his 
huge  bulk  lay  "like  a  hippopotamus."  He  used  to  get 
rid  of  the  sheets  and  wrap  himself  up  in  the  bedclothes 
in  a  bundle  like  an  animal.  His  language  was  abomin- 
able, and  he  sang  wicked  songs.  He  would  jump  out  of 
bed,  and  shut  the  windows  of  the  small  ward  in  which  he 
lay,  and  when  he  got  the  nurses  into  trouble  about  the 
want  of  ventilation,  he  always  denied  that  he  had  touched 
the  window. 

"Why  don't  you  help  us  with  our  singing,  as  they  do 
in  the  other  wards  ?"  said  one  of  the  patients  to  the  nurse. 
"Because,"  she  said,  "you  can't  expect  me  to  sing  such 
things  as  you  are  singing,"  whereupon  he  struck  up  the 
Te  Deum,  and  she  helped  him  to  the  best  of  her  power. 
That  afternoon  they  had  none  but  proper  songs.  The 
next  day,  however,  the  Irishman  complained  bitterly  that 
"the  nurses  would  sing  yesterday  all  that  was  wanted, 
and  if  I  begin  there's  nothing  but  looks  as  black  as 
thoonder." 

There  is  a  placard  in  each  room  forbidding  all  swear- 
ing, and  the  nurses  tried  to  check  his  oaths  by  saying  that 
they  should  report  him  to  the  authorities.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "there  you  go  on,  all  of  you,  reporting  and  report- 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  75 

ing!  We're  not  children.  You'll  find  yourselves  in  the 
wrong  box  some  of  these  days.  What  will  you  say  when 
you  get  a  crack  on  the  back  of  the  neck  some  day  as 
you're  passing  round  the  corner  of  the  street?"  He  was 
utterly  unmanageable,  and  the  doctors  were  extremely 
anxious  to  get  him  out  of  the  hospital,  where  he  did 
harm  to  all  in  the  ward  who  followed  his  lead ;  and  at  the 
end  of  three  weeks,  to  his  great  disgust,  he  was  sent  away, 
his  wounds  being  very  much  better.  He  had  complained 
of  everything — of  the  food,  of  the  dressings,  which  were 
not  at  all  painful.  But  the  sorest  grievance  of  all  was 
being  turned  out  sooner  than  the  rest.  "Thankful!"  he 
said;  "what  should  I  be  thankful  for?  This  hospital  be- 
longs to  the  poor,  and  you  nurses  are  our  paid  servants. 
We  are  not  going  to  be  thankful  to  you;  you  get  your 
training  on  us." 

There  were  some  very  bad  cases  of  skin-disease  at  this 
time — ("I  wonder  whether  Job  was  suffering  from  ec- 
zema," said  an  expert).  One  of  elephantiasis,  which, 
being  rare,  was  very  interesting  to  the  doctors,  and  of 
which  the  possessor  was  exceedingly  proud,  the  leg  hav- 
ing swelled  so  that  he  required  a  trouser  almost  like  a 
petticoat. 

The  uncommon  cases  receive  most  attention  (not  care) 
from  the  doctors;  accordingly  the  fortunate  object  takes 
great  pride  in  himself.  "I  am  an  interesting  case,"  he 
says  to  his  neighbor,  perhaps  "a  compound  fracture," 
whose  suffering  may  be  far  greater,  if  more  common- 
place, and  who  sighs  and  looks  on  him  with  envy. 

"A  compound  fracture,"  however,  became  a  public 
character  about  this  time.  After  trying  to  save  the  pa- 
tient's leg  the  doctors  told  him  that  it  must  be  ampu- 
tated. He  was  fed  up  and  prepared  with  great  care,  and 
was  supposed  to  be  in  very  good  condition  for  the  opera- 
tion. His  wife  was  warned  that  it  was  to  take  place,  and 
she  came  to  see  him  just  before  he  was  carried  to  the 
theatre,  when  she  was  left  sitting  by  his  bed  to  await  his 
return.  Chloroform  was  administered,  but  before  a 
knife  had  even  touched  him  the  man  was  dead.  There 


76  THE  INN  OF  REST 

was  a  terrible  "upset"  among  the  doctors ;  the  ward-sis- 
ter and  the  nurses  were  crying  as  if  their  hearts  would 
break.  "You  must  tell  her,"  said  the  sister.  "I  never 
can  do  it,"  sobbed  the  nurse.  At  last  the  sister  had  to 
go  up  to  the  watching  woman,  widowed  within  the  last 
few  minutes,  and  sitting  all  unconscious  beside  the  empty 
bed,  to  break  the  news. 

The  effects  of  chloroform  are  strangely  varied.  In 
general  the  sickness  brought  on  by  it  produces  great  de- 
pression, but  in  one  case  a  man  was  brought  out  of  the 
operation  theatre  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  with  ex- 
citement. When  he  reached  the  ward  he  cried  out, 
"Chorus,  gentlemen,  chorus !"  and  every  one  took  up  the 
singing  as  they  were  told,  supposing  only  that  he  rejoiced 
that  the  probation  time  was  over. 

The  things  which  alarm  some  of  these  great  strong 
men  are  very  curious.  "Just  look  at  that  there  window- 
curtain  blowing!  the  draught's  enough  to  kill  a  man." 
A  bath  is  looked  upon  as  very  dangerous ;  they  will  do 
anything  to  avoid  it.  "Why,  it'll  just  be  the  death  of  me 
to  be  wet  all  over !"  or,  "I  had  a  bath  last  night,  I  needn't 
go  in!"  entreats  a  man  who  has  apparently  never  been 
washed  since  he  was  a  child.  The  thermometer  for  tak- 
ing the  "temperature"  of  a  patient  is  looked  upon  with 
awe.  "Will  it  hurt  me  very  much,  nurse?"  said  a  great 
heavy  dock  laborer,  looking  anxiously  at  the  mysterious 
little  instrument. 

Two  frightful  cases  of  hydrophobia,  which  came  in  at 
not  long  intervals,  illustrated  the  terrible  side  which  must 
always  be  in  a  hospital.  The  madness  which  accompanied 
the  disease  was  so  violent  that  it  was  too  much  for  the 
nurses  to  manage,  and  both  had  to  be  looked  after  by 
the  porter — both  died. 

The  wide  catholicity  of  the  help  which  hospitals  afford 
is  shown  by  the  number  of  strange  nationalities  to  be 
found  there  at  different  times — black  men,  yellow  men, 
dusky  men,  pale-faced  men,  Spaniards,  Norwegians,  East 
Indians,  and  men  of  the  West,  etc.,  etc.  A  full-blooded 
negro  sailor,  who  came  in  fresh  from  Africa,  used  to  strip 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  77 

off  his  shirt  and  tie  a  handkerchief  round  his  waist  as 
soon  as  nurses  and  doctors  turned  their  backs,  and  even 
rush  across  the  ward  in  this  condition ;  he  was  not  used 
to  clothes ;  washing  was  detestable  to  him,  but  he  saved 
up  his  butter  to  oil  himself  all  over  with.  If  he  was 
thwarted,  he  looked  as  if  he  would  put  a  knife  into  the 
offender.  He  was  suffering  from  dysentery,  and  could 
not  endure  the  starvation  from  solid  food  which  the 
treatment  required,  and  ran  away.  He  was  sent  back  by 
the  ship's  doctor,  however,  and  when  asked  for  the  rea- 
son of  his  flight,  said  "Abdallah's  small  boy  dead";  but 
as  the  sad  event  took  place  in  Africa  it  hardly  seemed 
relevant  to  his  escape. 

A  Chinaman  was  so  conscfous  that  he  was  well 
off  that  when  he  was  ordered  to  be  taken  to  the  Union 
he  absolutely  refused  to  go,  and  adhered  so  firmly  though 
quietly  to  the  floor  of  the  padded  room  that  he  was  only 
got  off  with  great  difficulty.  He  was  like  a  surly  dog. 

Another  Chinaman,  suffering  from  bronchitis,  was  per- 
suaded one  day,  as  he  sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed,  to  un- 
plait  his  tail,  and  laughed  heartily  at  the  surprise  of  the 
earnest  onlookers,  to  find  that  it,  and  indeed  all  other 
tails  (he  said)  were  largely  composed  of  false  hair  and 
silk,  to  make  them  look  big  and  important. 

The  number  of  negroes,  chiefly  sailors,  to  be  found 
in  hospital,  is  great,  and  points  to  the  growing  difficulty 
in  obtaining  a  sufficient  supply  of  English  seamen.  It 
shows  that  the  whole  nominal  strength  of  our  merchant 
service  is  not  to  be  relied  on  as  a  reserve  for  the  navy 
in  time  of  war,  on  which  we  sometimes  seem  to  count. 

A  surreptitious  addition  was  made  to  the  black  popu- 
lation in  hospital  one  day.  A  woman  (white)  had  been 
admitted  for  some  complaint,  and  her  further  condition 
was  not  found  out  till  so  late  that  the  authorities  did  not 
like  to  send  her  away.  The  child,  when  it  arrived,  turned 
out  a  full  negro,  woolly  hair,  thick  lips,  color,  etc.,  all 
complete.  It  was  a  jolly  little  babe,  however,  and  the  sis- 
ter, who  was  most  angry  at  the  clandestine  mode  of  its 


78  THE  INN  OF  REST 

arrival,  was  so  proud  of  it  that  she  often  carried  it  about 
the  wards  to  be  admired. 

Even  the  hurts  from  wild  beasts  are  not  unrepresented. 
A  man  working  in  a  menagerie  was  bitten  severely  by  a 
bear  in  cleaning  out  his  den,  having  omitted  to  drive  him 
into  the  inner  cell.  His  hand  was  hardly  human  to  look 
at,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  get  out  he  went  back  "to  stir 
up  the  bear  with  a  pole,"  and  he  ended  by  declaring 
that  he  "would  be  even  with  him  still."  So  that  as  the 
bear  probably  had  his  own  views  on  the  subject,  the  pros- 
pects of  peace  were  not  great  in  the  den. 

The  sufferings  of  children  are  always  very  pathetic  to 
witness.  No.  73  was  a  poor  little  boy  of  seven  years  old ; 
his  father,  in  a  drunken  fit,  was  beating  his  wife  violently, 
when  the  child  rushed  in  and  tried  to  protect  her;  the 
father  seized  him  by  the  legs  and  threw  him  over  his 
shoulders  on  to  the  stone  floor  behind.  His  head  was 
frightfully  injured,  and  he  was  carried  into  the  hospital, 
where  he  lay  moaning  in  delirium  for  days  and  days.  Af- 
ter that  he  recovered  a  little,  so  as  to  be  conscious,  and 
was  a  great  pet  in  the  ward.  The  dressings  were  very 
painful,  and  the  men  in  the  beds  round  him,  who  did  not 
care  much  for  each  other's  sufferings,  were  all  extremely 
interested  and  pitiful. 

"Don't  yer  mind,  chappie,  it'll  soon  be  over,  and  you'll 
be  so  comfortable  afterwards;  take  heart,  little  un,  and 
then  you  shall  sing  to  us." 

The  child's  songs  were  very  popular,  particularly  one 
about  Jacko,  the  negro  boy.  "There  is  no  fun  when 
Jacko  is  not  there,"  was  the  chorus;  then  all  sorts  of 
misfortunes  happened,  "the  fiddler's  fingers  won't  go 
straight;  he'll  go  and  bust  his  bow!" 

The  father  and  mother  came  to  see  him,  to  the  great 
indignation  of  the  company.  The  men  cried  out  when 
they  were  gone,  "He  ought  to  have  twenty  years"  (penal 
servitude  understood).  That  he  should  beat  his  wife  was 
natural,  and  probably  served  her  right,  but  that  he  should 
so  injure  his  boy  was  quite  outside  the  laws  of  the 
game  in  their  eyes. 


79 

The  child  had  not  the  smallest  feeling  against  his 
father,  but  he  quite  agreed  with  this  view,  and  added, 
"Yes,  he  ought  to  be  in  a  cook-shop  for  a  month,  with 
nothing  to  eat  but  the  steam  he  can  lick  off  the  win- 
dows." He  had  evidently  served  his  apprenticeship  to 
the  sight  of  pleasures  without  the  possibility  of  enjoy- 
ing them.  As  he  grew  better  he  became  a  little  restless, 
and  used  to  run  about,  in  his  small  hospital  dressing- 
gown,  sometimes  with  the  temperature  thermometer 
tucked  under  his  arm,  in  and  out  among  the  beds ;  it  was 
against  orders,  but  neither  nurses  nor  doctors  chose  to 
see  him;  the  men  sometimes  interceded  for  him — "Let 
him  run,  miss,  it'll  do  him  a  lot  of  good,  poor  little  chap." 

He  was  kept  as  long  as  possible,  and  was  very  sorry  to 
go  to  the  dismal  home  which  he  was  to  return  to,  al- 
though the  mother  seemed  to  be  a  tolerably  respectable, 
quiet  woman.  His  health  was  permanently  injured,  and 
he  never  could  hope  to  be  a  strong  man. 

Another  little  thing  of  six  years  old,  and  looking  even 
younger,  was  brought  in,  terribly  burnt  from  sitting  up 
in  bed  smoking  "pretence"  cigarettes  of  paper.  The  dress- 
ing of  the  wounds  was  so  painful  that  he  often  tried  to 
bite  and  scratch  the  nurses;  but  at  other  times  he  was 
a  sweet  little  boy,  of  whom  they  were  all  extremely 
fond;  and  one  of  the  nurses  used  to  carry  him  about  in 
her  arms  like  a  baby  to  visit  the  different  beds,  where  he 
sang  his  little  songs,  which  were  very  popular — "The 
girl  I  did  court,  and  the  ring  I  did  bought,"  etc. 

On  one  occasion  a  mere  baby  was  brought  in  with  a 
burn.  It  had  been  taken  first  among  the  children,  but 
was  suspected  of  measles,  and  the  doctor  ordered  it  into 
the  men's  ward,  as  a  matter  of  precaution. 

"I  do  not  believe  it  is  measles,"  said  the  nurse. 

"What  else  can  it  be?"  answered  the  doctor. 

"Flea-bites,"  replied  she.  She  was  right  as  it  turned 
out. 

The  marks  literally  touched  each  other.  It  gives  some 
little  idea  of  the  dirt  of  the  places  from  which  some  of  the 
patients  come.  The  men  who  could  walk  were  always 


80  THE  INN   OF  REST 

fussing  about  the  little  cot,  giving  the  baby  her  bottle, 
etc.,  etc.,  and  those  who  were  bedridden  talked  about  it. 

The  presence  of  child  patients  in  the  ward  is  extremely 
beneficial ;  the  men  scruple  at  using  bad  words  or  swear- 
ing before  them,  and  it  brings  out  the  best  and  kindest 
part  of  their  nature.  In  the  wards  where  they  are  to  be 
found,  the  men  are  always  more  civilized  and  better  con- 
ducted. 

There  is  an  open  time  after  tea,  when  the  patients  are 
allowed  to  do  what  they  please.  Music  is  the  great  dis- 
traction. When  a  nurse  is  there  and  can  persuade  one 
performer  to  sing  at  a  time,  and  the  rest  to  join  in  the 
chorus,  the  effect  is  very  tolerable;  but  when  each  man 
sings  his  own  words,  to  his  own  tune,  and  when  the  tri- 
angle, the  penny  whistle,  and  the  Jews-harp — the  only 
instruments  allowed — all  take  their  own  lines,  the  uproar 
is  tremendous;  the  pleasure  in  mere  noise  is  evidently 
great  after  the  enforced  quiet  of  so  many  hours,  and  it 
must  be  remembered  that  many  of  the  patients  are  lads 
under  twenty.  There  are,  however,  more  sedate  pas- 
times— drafts,  dominoes,  and  illustrated  papers. 

These  are  a  few  cases  only  among  the  thousands  of 
sufferers.  The  manner  in  which  the  human  atoms  rise 
into  the  full  light  of  hospital  publicity,  and  are  helped  in 
all  the  ways  that  skill  and  kindness  can  suggest,  and  then 
disappear  forever  in  the  great  seething  ocean  of  life,  into 
an  oblivion  as  complete  as  that  of  death  itself,  is,  how- 
ever, very  sad;  not  one  in  four  or  five  hundred  is  ever 
heard  from  again.  A  few  return  on  the  visiting  days  to 
see  their  friends  and  thank  the  nurse  or  doctor,  but  the 
population  inside  and  outside  the  hospital  changes  so 
rapidly  that  their  visits  soon  cease. 

The  hospital,  itself,  however,  is  anything  but  a  sad 
place.  On  the  women's  side  those  who  are  married  han- 
ker after  their  children  and  their  wretched  homes,  but 
the  men  are  less  troubled  by  sentimental  regrets,  and 
are  extremely  "jolly."  They  are  mostly  better  off  than 
they  have  ever  been  in  their  lives  in  material  comforts; 
they  have  what  is  to  them  very  agreeable  society  and  a 


IN  A  GREAT  TOWN  HOSPITAL  81 

good  deal  of  amusement;  the  nurses  are  cheerful,  and 
low  spirits  are  not  the  distinguishing  feature  of  young 
doctors. 

The  immense  change  which  a  greater  knowledge  of 
the  human  frame  has  brought  about  in  medical  treat- 
ment has  entirely  altered  the  status  of  nurses ;  they  must 
be  sufficiently  trained  to  carry  out  the  orders  of  the 
doctors  now,  when  the  mere  swallowing  of  drugs  has 
become  a  small  part  of  the  cure.  External  applications 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  old  practise;  bleeding  and 
blistering  are  almost  unknown.  The  use  of  the  micro- 
scope, of  the  stethoscope,  the  taking  of  the  temperature, 
are  all  discoveries  of  the  last  score  of  years.  The  idea 
of  assisting  nature  to  restore  health  has  taken  the  field, 
conservative  surgery  has  become  the  rule,  and  the  value 
of  good  nursing  has  accordingly  risen  in  proportion. 
"This  is  a  case  for  the  nurse,"  says  the  doctor  continu- 
ally, especially  in  medical  cases,  after  giving  his  orders, 
which  only  an  intelligent  person  on  the  spot,  trained 
for  the  purpose  to  understand  what  is  before  her  eyes, 
could  see  carried  out  properly.  "To  put  in  practise  the 
instructions  she  receives  according  to  the  changing  agen- 
cies at  the  moment  of  the  sick  person"  is  no  light  task. 

The  hospital  is  a  charitable  institution  which  may 
be  said  to  do  more  good  and  less  harm  than  any  other. 
It  does  not  pauperize,  and  gives  help  at  the  most  criti- 
cal moment  to  the  sufferers.  It  is  essentially  Christian; 
there  is  no  trace  of  anything  of  the  kind  in  the  ancient  re- 
ligions. Hospitals  for  cats  and  monkeys  existed  in  Egypt 
and  India,  but  it  was  as  sacred  characters,  sick  divini- 
ties, that  they  were  well  treated,  not  as  fellow-creatures. 
It  was  not  till  Christianity  taught  the  world  the  value 
of  the  individual  human  life,  even  when  distorted  and 
degraded  by  disease  and  misery,  that  such  institutions 
became  possible.  It  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  when 
we  hear  of  any  short-comings  in  "Hospital  Saturdays" 
and  Sundays,  and  that  the  working  classes  do  not  take 
more  interest  in  assisting  the  cause.  Perhaps,  if  they 
could  have  some  share  of  representation  on  the  govern- 


83  THE   INN   OF   REST 

ing  bodies  of  the  hospitals,  this  at  least  might  be  to 
some  degree  remedied.  The  cause  is  their  own.  It  is  for 
their  own  benefit,  as  they  are  strangely  slow  to  perceive. 
The  balance  sheets  of  some  of  the  unendowed  hospitals 
are  somewhat  sad  reading.  In  one  case  £20,000  was 
asked  for  to  conduct  the  work,  which  there  was  small 
chance  of  raising;  and  smaller  institutions  require  far 
larger  subsidies  than  they  can  get.  A  wider  field  from 
which  to  draw  their  resources  would  greatly  assist  the 
harvest  necessary  for  the  full  development  of  the  most 
useful  of  charities. 

Probably  also  some  small  payments  should  be  exacted 
from  many  who  are  perfectly  able  to  contribute,  for 
assistance  which  they  receive  at  present  in  forma  pau- 
peris — an  imputation  which  they  would  resent  greatly  in 
any  other  connection.  To  receive  charity,  in  short,  when 
they  ought  to  provide  the  help  for  themselves,  is  to  pre- 
vent those  in  real  destitution  from  obtaining  as  much 
of  the  benefits  of  the  institution  as  they  would  other- 
wise do.  Many  beds  are  left  vacant  in  several  of  the 
best  of  hospitals  because  the  funds  are  not  sufficient  to 
support  the  expense  of  them,  which  is  indeed  a  sorry 
sight  for  those  who  care  for  their  kind. 


....... 

1    Is,  11  is    al    l<  a  ?    might   i 
The  cause  is  their  own.    ; 
y  are  strangely  slow  to  p- 
;^»  of  some  of  the  unendowed  hf 
reading.     In  one  case    £20,'.-** 
•ct  the  work,  v. 
6'  ,  and  smaller  in.-. 
than  they  can  get.    A 
,v  their  resources  would  greatly  assist  the 
\isary  for  the  full  development 

ties. 

•y  also  some  small  payments  should  be 
y    who  are  perfectly  able  to   contribut' 
ce  which  they  receive  at  present  in  forma  ;•.'.-»- 
un  imputation  which  they  would  resent  grea 
other  connection.    To  receive  charity,  in  short,  when 
ought  to  provide  the  help  for  themselves,  is  to  pre- 
those  in  real  destitutk  obtaining  as  much 


T*fimyMRdK&n?  WosrriAL.  /^Jftftal  of  the 
of  hospitals  because  the  fund*  are  not  sufficient  to 
-•ort  the  expense  of  the:  indeed  a  sorry 

sight  for  those  who  care  ft 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD 
OF  PAIN 

Elizabeth  G.  Jordan 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN. 

|HEY  had  told  her  that  only  an  operation  could 
save  her  life,  and  that  it  must  be  performed  at 
once.  The  voice  of  the  physician  who  first  spoke 
seemed  a  trifle  strained  and  unnatural  as  he  de- 
livered this  decision.  He  hesitated  perceptibly  over  his 
words,  and  his  eyes  moved  restlessly  as  she  fastened 
hers  upon  him.  Even  in  the  sudden  mental  panic  that 
had  seized  her,  and  which  she  was  controlling  so  well, 
she  realized  his  discomfort,  and  felt  a  vague  gratitude 
for  the  sympathy  that  caused  it. 

It  could  not  be  easy,  she  reflected,  to  tell  a  young  wo- 
man for  whom  life  held  as  much  as  it  did  for  her  that  a 
mortal  disease  had  fastened  on  her.  She,  who  had  al- 
ways analyzed  herself  and  others,  discovered  that  even 
at  this  crisis  she  was  dreamily  trying  to  follow  the  men- 
tal process  of  the  famous  surgeon,  who  had  begun  to 
roam  restlessly  about  the  room. 

"He  will  say  nothing  for  a  moment,"  she  thought. 
"He  is  giving  me  time  to  pull  myself  together.  I  can, 
but  I  do  need  the  time.  He  needs  it  to.  He  has  had 
to  tell  a  woman  who  is  young  and  rich,  one  who  is  am- 
bitious and  in  love,  something  that  may  mean  the  loss 
of  all  these  things.  He  has  made  her  feel  as  if  the  world 
were  slipping  under  her  feet.  The  only  thing  that  may 
save  her — the  knife.  My  work  must  stop,  my  friends 
must  stand  by  helplessly.  Even  Jack  can  do  nothing 
for  me — dear  Jack,  who  would  do  anything — *  *  *  *" 
The  objects  in  the  room  grew  suddenly  dim.  She  sank 
deeper  into  the  big  chair  that  held  her,  while  despair, 
sudden  and  unreasoning,  filled  her  soul.  The  question 
which  has  so  often  come  to  men  and  women  in  agony, 
through  all  time,  rose  in  her.  Why,  oh,  why  had  ex- 
istence begun  at  all,  if  it  must  end  like  this?  To  her 


86  THE   INN   OF   REST 

the  grim  implacability  of  fate  was  as  awful  as  a  revelation, 
as  if  she  were  the  only  one  to  whom  it  had  ever  come. 
To  be  projected  into  the  world  through  no  volition  of 
one's  own;  to  be  danced  about  like  a  puppet  on  a  string; 
to  have  the  body  to  which  one  is  tied  seized  by  disease, 
and  to  be  forced  to  watch  one's  own  decay,  helpless  to 
arrest  or  avert  it — that  was  a  horror  before  which  the 
soul  itself  must  shrink. 

Her  strong  soul  was  appalled  by  the  prospect.  Many 
had  leaned  on  it  in  'the  course  of  her  young  life,  whose 
brightness  had  not  made  her  heedless  of  the  gloom  in 
which  some  have  to  walk.  Her  strength  had  never 
failed  them;  but  in  this  tragedy  it  was  failing  herself, 
and  she  found  no  helper.  She  had  made  her  appointment 
with  the  specialists,  and  had  come  to  them  without  a 
word,  even  to  those  who  were  nearest  her.  "Why  should 
I  go  to  them  with  my  trouble?"  she  asked  herself.  "It  may 
not  be  what  I  fear,  and  I  should  alarm  them  unneces- 
sarily. If  it  is — well,  there  will  be  time  enough  to  tell 
them  when  I  know  myself." 

She  thought  of  them  now — at  least,  she  thought  of 
Jack.  Was  it  only  last  June  they  had  been  married?  It 
seemed  as  if  they  had  always  been  together,  as  if  they 
had  always  belonged  to  each  other,  as  if  life  had  only 
really  begun  when  she  met  him.  He  came  vividly  be- 
fore her — gay,  debonair,  his  brown  eyes  full  of  the  ten- 
derness she  knew  so  well.  She  pictured  the  change  that 
would  come  in  them  when  she  told  him — the  thought 
wrung  from  her  what  her  own  suffering  had  not  done. 
She  groaned,  and  the  three  physicians  at  once  assumed 
an  air  of  professional  interest. 

In  the  interval  of  silence  they  had  worn  their  usual 
calm.  They  were  suave,  polished,  hopeful.  In  this 
atmosphere  of  cool,  scientific  interest,  the  woman's  will 
asserted  itself,  and  she  set  her  teeth  with  the  determina- 
tion to  meet  these  men  with  a  calmness  equal  to  their 
own.  She  asked  that  the  operation  might  be  performed 
three  days  later,  and  found  them  thoroughly  in  accord 
with  her  wish  to  have  the  matter  hastened.  Every  de- 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  87 

tail  was  arranged ;  the  strain  was  lightened  to  the  ex- 
tent of  a  mild  professional  jest  or  two,  dropped  with  the 
friendly  wish  to  convince  her  that  the  situation  was  not 
hopelessly  tragic.  Then  she  went  to  her  carriage,  while 
three  pairs  of  eyes  looked  after  her,  and  then  at  each 
other,  with  an  expression  it  was  well  she  did  not  see. 
She  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  home,  and,  draw- 
ing her  furs  around  her,  gave  herself  again  to  reflection. 
Unconsciously  she  dropped  forward  a  little  in  her  seat, 
staring  at  the  falling  snow  outside  with  eyes  which 
hardly  saw  the  streets  and  scenes  through  which  she 
passed.  At  one  point  in  the  journey  up  town  the  car- 
riage was  stopped  for  a  moment  by  a  sudden  conges- 
tion of  traffic,  but  she  was  not  conscious  of  it.  Her  beau- 
tiful face,  outlined  against  the  dark  collar  of  her  fur 
coat,  and  framed  by  the  carriage  window,  drew  the  eyes 
of  another  woman  who  stood  at  the  curb  waiting  for 
an  opening  in  the  lines  of  vehicles.  She,  too,  was  mis- 
erable ;  but  something  in  the  expression  of  the  eyes  look- 
ing over  her  had  made  her  forget  her  own  burden  in  a 
sudden  thrill  of  unselfish  sympathy. 

Nevertheless,  she  might  have  failed  to  recognize  the 
face  had  she  seen  it  three  hours  later,  when  Mrs.  Jack 
Imboden  turned  it  toward  the  young  Englishman 
whom  her  hostess  of  the  evening  had  assigned  to  take 
her  to  dinner.  She  herself  knew  that  she  had  never 
looked  better,  and  Jack  had  confirmed  this  conviction 
when  he  folded  her  wrap  about  her  as  they  were  leaving 
home.  She  had  told  him  nothing  of  the  afternoon's  ex- 
perience; she  could  not,  she  discovered.  There  were 
limitations  even  to  her  courage.  She  could  dress,  she 
could  meet  a  dinner  engagement,  she  could  look  her 
best  and  be  her  brightest — that  much  she  could  and 
would  force  herself  to  do.  But  tell  Jack — no,  not  yet. 
Perhaps  after  all  she  could  arrange  it  so  that  he  need 
not  know. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  by  the  soft  laughter 
of  the  young  Englishman  by  her  side.  "That  is  deli- 
cious," he  said  appreciatively;  and  she  became  conscious 


88  THE  INN  OF  REST 

that  she  had  been  talking  brightly,  as  usual,  and  that 
what  she  had  just  said  was  rather  clever.  Jack  had 
caught  it,  too,  and  was  looking  at  her  with  the  expres- 
sion she  most  loved  to  see  in  his  eyes — a  look  of  proud 
and  tender  proprietorship.  Her  own  expression  changed 
so  suddenly  that  both  men  noticed  it,  and  Effingham, 
the  Englishman,  commented  upon  it  the  next  morning 
as  he  was  giving  an  account  of  the  dinner  to  his  cousin. 

"Mrs.  Jack  Imboden,  who  wrote  that  clever  society 
novel  last  year,  was  in  her  best  form,"  he  said.  "But  for 
all  that,  I  don't  believe  she  was  happy.  I  can't  explain 
it,  but  every  now  and  then  there  was  something — and 
once  she  looked  at  Imboden  in  the  strangest  way.  Do 
you  suppose  they  have  quarreled,  or  that  he  is  not  treat- 
ing her  right?" 

His  cousin,  the  Honorable  Cuthbert  Effingham, 
yawned  widely.  He  had  not  met  Mrs.  Imboden,  and 
the  subject  did  not  especially  interest  him. 

"The  germ  of  an  idea,"  evolved  during  the  dinner  that 
evening,  developed  well.  By  taking  Jack's  partner  into 
her  confidence,  a  rapid  exchange  of  telegrams  between 
the  East  and  West  made  Mrs.  Imboden's  plan  succeed 
so  well  that  she  drove  with  her  husband  to  the  station 
the  day  before  the  operation,  and  saw  him  whirled  away 
in  a  Westward-bound  train.  He  had  rebelled  loudly 
over  going;  the  subtle  instinct  that  is  the  twin  of  per- 
fect love  had  told  him  something  was  wrong.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  almost  faltered,  almost  confessed — it 
would  have  been  so  great  a  comfort  to  have  him  to  lean 
upon.  But  she  had  sent  him  away,  playing  her  part  per- 
fectly until  the  end. 

There  was  much  to  be  done  that  last  night, — she 
thought  of  it,  somewhat,  as  the  last  night,  absolutely. 
Her  mental  process  refused  to  go  beyond  the  events  of 
the  next  day;  and  though  she  did  not  allow  her 
thoughts  to  take  on  more  than  a  hypothetical  fore- 
boding of  death,  she  made  her  will,  gave  definite  in- 
structions to  the  friends  who  were  now  aware  of  what 
was  to  take  place,  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Jack, 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  89 

which  was  to  be  mailed  to  him,  "unless,"  as  she  put  it  to 
her  maid,  "within  three  days  I  myself  give  you  instruc- 
tions to  the  contrary." 

The  great  surgeon  came  in  the  evening.  He  was 
interested  in  the  woman  as  well  as  in  the  case.  He  per- 
suaded her  to  take  a  sleeping  draught,  mixing  it  himself 
with  a  solicitude  which  would  have  surprised  his  col- 
leagues had  they  seen  it. 

"You  must  sleep  well  to-night,  you  know,"  he  said 
to  her,  "and  you  would  not  do  it  without  this.  You'd  say 
you  would,  and  you  would  try,  but  you  would  lie  awake 
all  night  and  think — which  would  be  bad  for  you." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  the  great  surgeon.  He  was 
a  little  surprised  at  himself,  and  was  still  more  so  when 
late  that  night  he  found  himself  giving  his  wife  the  his- 
tory of  the  case.  It  was  his  rule  not  to  carry  professional 
matters  into  his  home,  and  he  was  sorry  he  had  broken 
it  when  he  saw  the  tears  his  remarks  called  forth. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  to  be  brave,"  he  said,  looking  down 
encouragingly  at  Mrs.  Imboden  the  next  day,  a  moment 
before  the  anaesthetic  was  administered.  "You  will  be 
that,  I  know.  But  you  must  be  hopeful.  We  are  going 
to  bring  you  through  all  right." 

The  saturated  cone  settled  over  her  face,  and  the 
sweet  fumes  of  the  anaesthetic  filled  her  nostrils  and 
crept  into  her  lungs. 

"Take  a  deep  breath,"  she  heard  a  voice  say.  "Take 
a  deep  breath,  and  count.  Begin  with  one,  and  count  as 
long  as  you  can." 

She  counted  steadily  to  eight,  drawing  in  the  fumes 
with  each  breath,  and,  unconsciously,  breathing  as  little 
as  possible.  At  nine  a  sudden  panic  came  upon  her. 
Her  strong  will  broke,  and  a  sense  of  darkness  and  hor- 
ror filled  her.  She  opened  her  mouth  to  shriek,  and  a 
great  cold  wave  seemed  to  lift  her  and  carry  her  away. 
She  heard  some  one  say  "twelve — thirteen — fourteen" — 
and  her  heart  was  filled  with  pity  for  a  wretched  wo- 
man, who,  far  off  in  another  world,  was  suffering.  "Sev- 


90  THE  INN   OF  REST 

en-te-en,"  "ei-gh-te-en,"  "n-i-ne-te-en,"  moaned  the  dis- 
tant voice.  Then  all  was  blackness  and  oblivion. 

When  she  again  became  conscious  of  her  own  identity 
she  was  one  of  a  vast  number  of  souls,  floating  through 
a  long,  dark  valley,  at  the  distant  end  of  which  gleamed 
a  ray  of  light.  She  seemed,  like  the  others,  to  be  pro- 
pelling herself  toward  this  light  with  the  dimly  de- 
fined conception  that  it  marked  her  objective  point.  But 
the  journey  was  endless.  Centuries  seemed  to  pass,  em- 
pires to  rise  and  fall,  worlds  to  appear  and  disappear 
as  she  traveled  on.  At  first  all  was  silence ;  then  the 
air  was  filled  with  a  low  moan,  increasing  in  violence 
as  she  drew  near  the  end  of  the  valley,  until  it  swelled 
to  a  vast  diapason  of  human  agony.  Before  the  horror 
of  it  her  brain  reeled ;  she  grasped  blindly  at  the  shadowy 
forms  about  her,  but  each  swept  on  unswervingly.  She 
felt  herself  falling,  and  as  she  sank  the  conviction  settled 
upon  her  that  this  was  at  last  the  end.  She  did  not  know 
why,  but  she  realized  that  if  she  lost  her  place  in  that 
dim  procession  she  would  never  get  back  into  the  bright- 
ness of  the  world  she  was  seeking.  She  must  wander 
forever  alone  in  the  darkness. 

Suddenly  a  voice,  rich  and  musical,  spoke  beside  her. 
It  was  a  deep,  strong  baritone — a  human  voice.  It 
rose  and  fell  softly,  persistently.  She  did  not  hear  the 
words,  but  she  knew  at  once  that  it  was  meant  for  her, 
that  it  was  striving  to  reach  her  and  help  her.  To  its 
humanity  and  sympathy  she  responded  as  a  frightened 
child  in  the  dark  responds  to  the  touch  of  its  mother's 
hand.  She  felt  strong,  well  poised,  resolute.  She  found 
herself  again  a  part  of  the  throng  around  her,  hurrying 
towards  the  light,  which  grew  brighter  as  they  ap- 
proached the  exit  from  the  valley.  Through  it  all  the 
voice  remained  beside  her,  uplifting  and  sustaining.  As 
it  grew  stronger  the  whole  valley  seemed  to  her  to  be 
full  'of  it,  but  the  other  shadows  took  no  heed.  The 
conviction  strengthened  that  it  was  for  her  alone — that 
she  alone  heard  it.  A  buoyant  hope  and  strength  took 
possession  of  her,  and  the  appalling  sense  of  loneliness 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  91 

departed.  She  floated  calmly  onward,  out  of  the  dense 
gloom  into  a  grey  twilight,  then  at  last  through  the 
great  arch  at  the  end  of  the  valley  and  into  a  broad 
green  field  over  which  lay  the  blessed  light  of  day. 

As  her  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  brightness  around 
her,  she  saw  that  the  light  came  not  from  the  sun,  but 
from  a  brilliant  dome  arching  over  the  field,  and  from 
which  radiated  myriads  of  golden  wires  converging  to 
a  vast  instrument  in  the  centre.  These  wires  threw  out 
blinding  and  many-colored  lights.  At  the  instrument  sat 
a  woman  of  heroic  size,  in  flowing  white  robes  that 
melted  into  the  brilliance  around  her.  Her  great  face 
was  calm,  beautiful,  benign.  On  the  greensward  in 
front  of  her  were  thousands  of  men,  women,  and  little 
children.  Each  was  dressed  in  white,  each  face  was 
distorted,  and  from  each  open  mouth  came  cries  of 
agony.  From  time  to  time  the  ranks  parted,  and  one 
person  was  swept  into  the  space  directly  before  the  in- 
strument. The  mighty  hand  of  the  woman  sitting  there 
struck  a  key,  and  as  the  note  sounded  one  of  the  wires 
faded,  and  the  shrieking,  foremost  figure  sank  from 
sight. 

Florence  Imboden  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng 
and  looked  at  those  near  her,  forgetting  her  own  physical 
suffering  in  the  sight  of  theirs.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand at  once  what  it  all  meant,  and  she  accepted  with- 
out question  the  explanation  that  suggested  itself,  as 
one  accepts  the  strange  experiences  that  come  in 
dreams. 

"This  is  the  World  of  Pain,"  she  told  herself,  "and 
these  are  the  souls  of  men  and  women  whose  tortured 
bodies  are  lying  on  the  operating  tables  in  our  world 
below.  The  surgeons  tell  us  when  we  come  back  that  we 
have  not  suffered — but  we  do,  we  do !" 

The  young  girl  standing  next  to  her  was  suddenly 
swept  by  some  invisible  force  to  the  open  space  before 
the  instrument.  The  woman  left  behind  knew  that  her 
time  was  coming,  and  braced  herself  to  meet  it.  But 
fear,  hideous,  sickening,  demoralizing,  again  claimed  her. 


92 

The  head  of  the  woman  at  the  instrument  bent  to  her, 
and  she  felt  herself  propelled  forward.  The  pandemon- 
ium around  her  grew  wilder.  She  realized  now  that 
the  distant  echo  of  it  was  what  she  had  heard  in  her 
journey  through  the  valley.  She  saw  the  mighty  hand 
before  her  move  towards  the  key,  and  her  eyes  followed 
it.  The  surface  of  the  key  was  a  transparent  crystal. 
Looking  through,  she  saw  a  room,  bare,  marble-lined, 
with  a  table  in  the  center  around  which  were  grouped 
half  a  dozen  white-robed  figures.  Four  were  men  and 
two  were  women — nurses.  On  the  table  lay  a  figure. 
As  she  looked,  the  cone  in  the  hand  of  one  was  lifted; 
a  sudden  stir  of  excitement  was  noticeable  in  the  tense 
circle.  Under  the  raised  cone  she  saw  her  own  face, 
white,  still,  terrible.  There  was  a  quick  rush  to  and  fro, 
the  body  was  raised,  something  that  looked  like  a  gal- 
vanic battery  was  produced  and  used.  The  great  sur- 
geon turned  from  the  table  and  threw  up  his  hand  in  a 
gesture  of  hopelessness. 

The  mighty  finger  at  the  instrument  moved  implacably 
towards  the  key,  shutting  off  the  glimpse  into  the  world 
below.  She  felt  herself  sinking,  going,  when  again  the 
wonderful  voice  that  had  sustained  her  sounded  in  her 
ear — melodious,  golden,  with  musical  inflections  never 
heard  in  any  other  world,  but  never  to  be  forgotten  now. 
This  time  she  could  hear  the  words. 

"Give  her  strength  for  the  ordeal  before  her,  and  if 
it  be  Thy  will  restore  her  to  the  life  in  which  she  has 
done  so  much  good,  to  the  husband  whom  she  has  so 
greatly  blessed.  We  ask  it  in  the  name*  *  *  *" 

She  raised  her  head  without  fear,  and  looked  into  the 
calm  eyes  of  the  woman  at  the  instrument.  The  voice 
went  on.  She  heard  the  words  no  longer,  but  those  to 
which  she  had  listened  were  enough.  She  would  live. 
She  would  live  for  Jack,  "the  husband  whom  she  had  so 
greatly  blessed."  Some  benign,  some  powerful  influence 
was  behind  her,  strengthening  and  upholding  her.  She 
would  live. 

"She  is  coming  round  at  last,"  said  a  voice  softly. 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  93 

"That  was  a  close  callx  doctor,"  said  another.  "I 
never  saw  a  closer  one.  I  was  certain  for  a  few  seconds 
that  the  pulse—" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  white-walled  room  was 
whirling  round  her.  Faces,  vaguely  familiar,  appeared 
and  disappeared.  One  mist-like  at  first,  gradually  shaped 
itself  into  the  features  of  the  great  surgeon.  His  stern 
eyes  smiled  at  her. 

"It's  all  over,"  he  remarked  tersely.  "Now  you  have 
only  to  get  well." 

"Doctor,"  she  said  dreamily,  "there  is  a  soul — there 
is  a  soul.  I  have  never  felt  certain  of  it  before.  And 
that  voice — that  wonderful  voice  that  saved  me — the 
voice  that  prayed!  Whose  was  it?" 

She  saw  them  smile  a  little  at  her  seeming  incoherence. 

"Never  mind,  dear  Mrs.  Imboden,  that's  the  ether," 
one  of  the  nurses  said  gently. 

But  she  persisted  and  questioned  until  the  surgeon 
himself  came  to  her  bedside. 

"Who  prayed?"  she  asked,  "who  was  it  that  prayed?" 

He  laid  lightly  on  hers  the  steady  hand  that  had 
worked  so  well  for  her,  and  spoke  to  her  as  one  speaks 
to  a  fretful  child. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Imboden,"  he  said  soothingly,  "you  must 
be  very  quiet.  Don't  talk.  Don't  think.  As  for  this 
voice  of  yours — there  has  been  no  praying  here."  He 
dfew  on  his  gloves  as  he  added,  with  professional  pride, 
"We  have  been  working." 

She  regained  strength  rapidly,  and  some  of  her  old- 
time  brightness  and  buoyancy  came  with  it.  But  when 
the  news  of  the  accident  in  which  Jack  Imboden  had  met 
his  death  was  flashed  to  his  New  York  home,  they  kept 
it  from  her  as  long  as  they  dared.  Before  this  double 
tragedy  in  her  life  her  friends  succumbed  in  silent  de- 
spair. There  was  none  among  them  strong  enough  to 
tell  her,  so  they  delayed  while  she  talked  of  him  con- 
stantly and  counted  the  days  that  must  pass  before  he 
could  return  to  her. 

When  they  finally  told  her,  she  turned  her  face  to  the 


94  THE  INN  OF  REST 

wall  without  comment,  and  asked  them  to  leave  her 
alone.  Through  the  weary  days  and  nights  that  fol- 
lowed she  lay  there  making  no  outcry,  no  complaint,  ac- 
cepting what  was  done  for  her  without  question — silent, 
tense,  automatic. 

"She's  losing  strength  every  hour,"  said  the  day 
nurse  uneasily,  to  one  of  her  associates.  "This  has  de- 
stroyed her  only  chance.  They  shouldn't  have  told 
her — and  yet  how  could  they  help  it?  She  was  con- 
stantly asking  for  him,  and  the  anxiety  and  suspense 
would  have  been  as  bad  as  truth.  Her  courage  might 
have  pulled  her  through.  But  this  ends  it;  she  will  not 
have  to  mourn  her  husband  long." 

As  the  weeks  passed,  the  same  conviction  came  to 
Florence  Imboden  like  a  flash  of  light  across  a  midnight 
sky.  After  all,  what  matter?  It  would  not  be  long.  In 
any  case  she  might  not  have  lived  more  than  a  year 
or  two,  and  if  that  were  so  the  situation  was  as  Jack 
himself  would  have  wished  it  to  be.  He  would  have  felt 
that  he  could  not  live  without  her — now  she  need  not 
live  on  without  him.  It  was  well.  Only  a  short  time, 
and  they  would  be  together.  But  would  they?  The 
question  loomed  suddenly  before  her,  black,  forbidding, 
shutting  out  the  light  that  had  entered  her  soul. 

Would  they?  Was  there  a  hereafter?  Was  the  soul 
immortal  ? — or  was  death  merely  the  sinking  of  the  mor- 
tal into  nothing  which  is  poetically  called  eternal  peace 
and  sleep? 

In  her  full  bright  life  she  had  never  before  had  those 
questions  come  home  to  her.  She  had  attended  church, 
she  had  freely  given  from  the  abundance  that  was  hers, 
she  had  felt  deep  respect  for  the  aims  and  teachings  of 
religion  and  for  the  convictions  of  her  religious  friends. 
But  in  her  soul  she  was  conscious  that  she  did  not 
know — that  she  had  never  been  convinced — that  relig- 
ion was  not  the  vital  thing  to  her  it  was  to  some  others. 
Now  her  heart  cried  out  for  faith,  for  conviction,  for 
immortality. 

"If  I  could  be  certain  of  meeting  Jack  again,"  she 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  95 

breathed,  "how  cheerfully,  how  gladly  I  could  bear  what- 
ever comes !" 

She  recalled  the  firm  conviction  in  which  she  had 
come  back  to  life  after  the  operation.  "There  is  a  soul, 
there  is  a  soul,"  she  had  told  the  doctors,  with  her  mind 
full  of  that  experience  in  the  upper  world,  her  ears 
still  hearing  the  tones  of  that  marvelous  voice.  They 
had  smiled  over  her  words,  telling  her  the  episode  was 
merely  an  ether  vision  and  a  common  one  at  that.  No 
doubt  they  were  right,  she  told  herself.  The  shock  of 
Jack's  death  had  pulled  her  down  from  any  spiritual 
heights  she  might  have  reached  to  the  earthly  plane  on 
which  her  only  need  was  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
touch  of  his  hand.  The  mysterious  voice  had  haunted 
her  for  a  few  days.  She  had  thought  of  it — dreamed 
of  it ;  but  now  that,  too,  was  gone. 

She  was  getting  out  of  touch  with  every  human  thing 
— worse  than  that,  with  every  spiritual  thing.  This,  at 
last,  was  agony.  What  had  gone  before  was  nothing. 
She  was  alone,  hideously  alone.  She  had  called  on  God, 
and  heard  no  answer.  She  tried  to  pray,  and  the  prayers 
seemed  hollow  mockery.  She  sank  into  lethargic  de- 
spair. 

Effingham  found  her  so  one  day  when  he  had  begged  to 
see  her  for  a  moment.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met 
since  her  illness,  as  he  had  unexpectedly  sailed  for  Eng- 
land the  day  after  her  operation  was  performed.  She  had 
always  liked  the  sympathetic,  clean-souled,  ascetic 
young  Englishman,  and  she  found  herself  speaking  to 
him  as  she  had  spoken  to  no  one  else. 

"You  believe  in  a  hereafter,  do  you  not?"  she  asked 
wistfully  while  he  was  studying,  with  a  sense  of  shock, 
the  great  changes  in  her. 

He  flushed  a  little,  with  the  Englishman's  disinclina- 
tion to  touch  upon  the  subjects  most  sacred  to  him ;  but 
something  in  her  eyes  and  face  made  him  respond 
simply  and  fully. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Imboden,"  he  said,  "I  do  indeed.  The 
faith  I  have  in  God  and  heaven  is  very  near  to  me.  You 


96  THE  INN  OF  REST 

know,"  he  added  slowly,  "I  am  preparing  for  the  Church, 
and  I  am  here  to  study  with  a  dear  friend  who  has 
helped  me  more  than  any  I  have  ever  known.  If  you 
have  doubts — if  you  are  looking  for  strength  and  con- 
viction, he  can  help  you,  I  am  sure.  He  is  a  wonder- 
ful man.  Will  you  let  me  bring  him  to  you,  or,  better 
still,  will  you  go  with  me  to  his  church  some  day?  It 
it  not  far  up  town,  and  I  would  like  to  have  you  see  him 
among  his  people.  Just  now  he  is  giving  a  series  of 
afternoon  talks;  every  one  of  them  is  an  inspiration. 
Perhaps,"  he  added,  "you  would  be  willing  to  drive  up 
there  with  me  now  ?" 

She  hesitated.  "I  -have  gone  out  but  a  few  times,  you 
know,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "I  am  perfectly  able  to  go, 
but  it  seems  so  hard  for  me  to  move — to  arouse  myself 
from  the  condition  of  lethargy  I  am  in." 

The  tone  and  her  expression  made  Effingham  unus- 
ually persistent. 

"Come,"  he  urged ;  "we'll  sit  at  the  back  of  the  church, 
and  nobody  will  see  us.  You  need  not  see  Livingston 
afterwards  unless  you  wish,  although  I  fancy  you  will 
want  to  talk  to  him  when  you  have  heard  him.  People 
usually  do." 

She  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  and  they  drove 
up  town  together  to  the  little  church,  tucked  modestly 
out  of  the  way  in  an  unfashionable  street.  The  winter 
day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  church  was  but 
dimly  lighted.  As  they  entered  a  pew  near  the  door, 
they  saw  that  all  the  seats  were  rilled  by  shadowy  fig- 
ures, leaning  forward  as  if  in  prayer.  They  settled  them- 
selves comfortably,  and  gave  themselves  up  to  the  quiet 
and  peace  of  the  place.  Through  the  door  at  the  right 
of  the  sanctuary  a  man  came.  She  could  see  his  figure 
but  dimly  in  the  uncertain  light.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  over  the  assembly,  and  then  began  to  speak. 

At  the  first  word,  Florence  Imboden  started  to  her 
feet.  The  voice  was  a  deep  baritone,  full  of  musical 
inflections,  heard  by  her  but  once  before,  but  not  to  be 
mistaken  when  heard  again.  It  was  the  voice  of  the 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN  97 

World  of  Pain — the  voice  that  had  comforted,  the  voice 
that  had  saved.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  while 
her  brain  reeled.  Her  mind  was  going  at  last,  she 
thought;  no  mind  could  stand  the  accumulated  horrors 
of  these  last  few  months.  She  tried  to  think  calmly. 
It  was  the  voice — but  the  other  had  been  only  "  an  ether 
vision."  Had  they  not  told  her  so?  This  man  was 
strange  to  her;  but  that  voice  was  not,  could  never  be. 
She  tried  to  pray,  but  could  not.  A  nervous  tremor 
convulsed  her.  She  rose  and  groped  her  way  out  of  the 
pew.  Effingham,  suddenly  roused  from  his  absorption, 
assisted  her  without  question  into  the  street,  where  her 
carriage  stood  waiting.  She  motioned  the  footman  away. 

"I  want  the  air,"  she  said  to  Effingham.  "Let  us  walk 
up  and  down  for  a  few  moments." 

They  strolled  along  the  deserted  street,  the  young 
Englishman  supporting  her  with  friendly  sympathy.  He 
did  not  speak  at  first,  but  as  he  saw  her  grow  calmer 
he  broke  the  silence. 

"I  am  afraid  you  did  not  like  him,"  he  said,  with 
some  disappointment,  "and  I  am  so  sorry.  I  felt  sure 
he  could  help  you." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on  talking  with 
friendly  purpose  of  giving  her  time  to  collect  herself. 

"He  has  helped  me  as  I  have  told  you,  more  than  any 
one  else,  and  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  him.  I  turn 
to  him  not  only  with  my  own  troubles,  but  with  those 
of  my  friends.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  telling  you," 
he  went  on,  a  little  diffidently,  "that  I  took  yours  to 
him.  When  I  learned  of  your — your  illness,  I  went 
to  him  the  day  before  sailing  and  asked  him  to  pray  for 
you  during  the  operation,  which  was  to  be  performed 
that  afternoon  at  two.  When  I  had  been  in  England  a 
week  I  had  a  letter  from  him.  He  wrote  that  your  case 
had  strongly  appealed  to  him — had  'taken  hold  of  him/ 
as  he  put  it.  So  much  so,  in  fact,  he  said,  that  he  had 
knelt  down  in  his  study  and  prayed  for  you  for  two  hours 
while  your  operation  was  going  on.  Why,  Mrs.  Imbo- 
den— " 


98  THE   INN   OF   REST 

She  reeled  slightly,  but  his  strong  arm  held  her  up. 
Her  mind  was  going,  after  all;  it  grasped  as  much  of 
the  strange  experience  as  she  could  understand.  She 
did  not  know  why  it  should  have  come  to  her  of  all 
the  world,  but  she  did  not  question,  either.  It  was  for 
some  great  purpose,  she  felt.  When  the  human  soul 
was  taxed  beyond  its  powers  something  divine  entered  in 
and  helped  it.  She  was  no  mere  atom  whirling  through 
space,  to  exist  for  a  little  time  and  perish.  Behind  the 
mystery  of  life  was  some  benign  power — she  did  not 
know  what,  but  she  was  satisfied.  In  these  dark  hours 
of  life  it  had  given  her  this  proof  that  it  existed.  She 
could  safely  trust  herself  to  it.  She  looked  up  into  Ef- 
fingham's  eyes  with  a  sudden  light  in  hers  which  glad- 
dened him. 

"Your  friend  can  help  me,"  she  said,  "and  he  shall — 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  whole  world.  He  shall 
teach  me  and  I  will  believe — I  know  it.  Let  us  go  to 
him  now." 

The  people  were  coming  out  of  the  little  church  as 
they  turned  back  together.  They  stood  aside  for  a  mo- 
ment to  let  the  others  pass.  Off  in  the  darkness  the 
street  lamps  began  to  twinkle;  above,  the  crescent  of 
the  moon  hung  pale  in  the  twilight.  Florence  Imboden 
drew  a  deep  breath  as  she  looked  up  at  it.  The  tragedy 
of  life,  of  which  her  mind  had  been  so  full — what  was 
it  ?  Nothing.  Fear,  pain,  loneliness — all  these  were  swept 
away  by  the  mental  illumination  that  had  come  to  her. 
The  grim  spectre  of  death  itself  was  a  benign  friend,  wait- 
ing smilingly  beside  her.  Her  prayers  were  answered.  It 
was  well  with  her — it  was  to  be  well  with  her.  No  mat- 
ter what  came,  or  how  long  or  short  the  time,  she  could 
bear,  she  could  wait.  This  little  life  was  not  the  end. 
There  must  be  another  world,  another  existence — com- 
plete, perfect.  She  did  not  know  where,  but  it  was 
somewhere,  and  in  it — Jack  was  waiting! 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE 

Eliza  Priestley 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE. 

N  THESE  days  of  immense  hospitals  and  asylums 
of  every  kind,  it  may  not  be  without  interest  to 
let  our  minds  wander  back  for  a  moment  to  prim- 
|itive  times  when  women  alone  attended  women  in 
childbirth,  and  the  tomahawk  was  the  only  true  and  uner- 
ring remedy  for  sickness  known.  By  degrees  charms, 
amulets,  and  superstition  generally,  took  the  place  of  the 
tomahawk,  and  for  centuries  found  virgin  soil  in  the  hu- 
man mind,  lasting  throughout  the  dawn  of  civilization, 
lingering  on  in  primitive  places,  and  still  existing  in  be- 
lated countries  even  in  these  scientific  days.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian,  era,  and  also  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  tending  the  sick  was  regarded  entirely  as  a  re- 
ligious duty,  the  hospital  and  the  House  of  God  being 
one  and  indissoluble.  Under  the  shelter  of  monastic 
institutions  and  religious  orders,  hospitals  for  the  sick 
spread  over  the  land,  and  the  study  of  medicine  was  in- 
terwoven with  that  of  theology  for  the  common  worship 
of  God  and  the  good  of  man.  In  all  Roman  Catholic 
countries  this  holy  combination  still  goes  on,  and  when 
a  sick-nurse  is  required  it  is  difficult  to  find  one  outside 
the  walls  of  a  religious  institution. 

With  us  the  nursing  of  the  sick  has  for  long  been  dis- 
associated from  religion,  being  adopted  in  Protestant  com- 
munities simply  and  frankly  as  a  means  of  earning  a 
livelihood.  But  until  recent  years  no  one  ever  thought 
of  engaging  a  nurse  for  the  sick  except  in  extreme  cases, 
for  every  woman  with  the  true  instincts  of  a  woman 
considered  it  her  special  privilege,  however  ignorant,  to 
nurse  the  sick  within  her  own  household.  Now  all  that 
is  over,  for  nursing  as  an  art  has  emerged  from  the  mere 
instinct  of  domestic  love  and  duty  into  a  science  to  meet 
the  general  advance  of  our  times. 


102  THE  INN   OF  REST 

X^ith  our  ever-increasing  knowledge  of  disease  de- 
rived from  research  laboratories  all  over  the  world,  and 
further  with  the  introduction  of  anaesthetics,  an  im- 
mense impulse  has  been  given  to  the  practice  of  medi- 
cine and  surgery.  Operations  that  were  impossible 
twenty  years  ago  can  now  be  performed  with  impunity. 
Nowadays  no  one  is  bled  to  death  for  fever,  or  need 
be  brought  to  a  miserable  end  from  preventable  blood- 
poisoning;  in  fact  no  one  need  die  the  mere  victim  of 
ignorance,  and  where  suffering  is  inevitable  alleviations 
can  be  found  to  soothe.  The  difficulties  we  have  to 
encounter  no  longer  arise  from  ignorance  of  the  causes 
of  disease  on  the  part  of  the  practitioner  who  is  up  to 
date,  but  from  the  deplorable  ignorance  of  the  causes  of 
disease  on  the  part  of  millions  of  people,  with  a  rapidly 
increasing  population.  To  and  fro,  in  and  out,  by  rail, 
by  foot  along  the  roadways,  by  carriage,  and  by  boat, 
vast  numbers  of  people  are  ever  drifting  about  carrying 
the  living  seeds  of  disease  with  them  from  one  place 
to  another.  In  the  island  of  Malta  medical  men,  study- 
ing the  local  fever  at  the  bedside  and  in  the  laboratory, 
have  ascertained  that  this  particular  fever  has  increased 
in  "virulence"  within  the  last  fifteen  years,  and  attribute 
this  to  the  immense  increase  of  population  within  a 
limited  area.  In  the  densely  crowded  and  fetid  black 
slums  of  Cairo  cholera  is  rarely  absent,  but  unless  it 
becomes  epidemic — as  it  does  periodically — the  fact  re- 
mains known  only  to  the  officials  who  keep  it  in  check, 
and  who  are  always  on  the  alert.  In  all  large  cities 
sickness  in  various  shapes  seems  to  form  permanent 
centers,  throwing  out  living  streams  of  infection  over 
the  outskirts  and  into  the  more  thinly  populated  parts. 
Thus,  with  all  our  medical  knowledge  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  wonderful  system  of  inspection  emanating  from 
the  Local  Government  Board,  our  hospitals  and  infirm- 
aries continue  to  be  crowded,  every  children's  school  be- 
comes sooner  or  later  a  focus  of  infection ;  and  sickness 
in  some  shape  finds  its  way  into  every  home.  Do  what 
we  will,  we  cannot  keep  back  sickness  and  death  from 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  103 

our  door,  and  through  that  door  we  have  all  in  turn 
to  call  the  sick-nurse  in. 

Her  duties  in  this  our  Protestant  country  are  no  less 
serious  with  us  than  they  are  in  those  countries  where 
the  "Sisters"  are  celibates,  and  bound  by  their  religion 
to  take  the  vows  of  chastity  and  obedience,  with  the 
one  great  object  ever  before  them,  the  Cross  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Darkly  robed  in  saintly  garb,  the  Fille-dieu 
visits  the  home  of  the  sick,  and  performs  her  duties  in 
deep  humility  and  faith.  If  she  does  not  enjoy  the  high 
training  of  our  aspirants  she  at  least  carries  out  the  doc- 
tor's orders,  and  does  all  the  work  required  of  her,  how- 
ever menial,  and  having  secured  the  gratitude  of  her 
patient  she  subsides  once  more  into  the  sacred  privacy 
and  silence  of  the  cloisters.  No  gossip  attends  her  min- 
istrations, and  where  she  herself  is  so  guarded  no 
breach  of  confidence  takes  place.  Her  person  and  her 
office  are  alike  sacred. 

With  our  nurses — or  shall  we  call  them  "sisters"? — 
things  are  not  the  same.  There  is  not  the  same  respect 
for  privacy,  silence,  obedience,  and  even  the  discipline 
which  was  so  marked  a  feature  under  the  regime 
of  Florence  Nightingale  is  conspicuous  now  only  by  its 
absence.  The  very  class  from  which  sick-nurses  were 
formerly  drafted  has  changed  from  the  lower  to  the 
middle  and  even  upper  class.  She  is  no  longer  con- 
tent to  fraternize  with  the  servants  of  the  house  and 
take  her  meals  with  them  where  convenient,  but,  failing 
a  table  apart,  she  has  to  join  the  family  at  meals,  how- 
ever unwelcome  her  presence  may  be.  Her  position 
in  the  household  is  no  longer  what  it  once  was — and, 
indeed,  could  scarcely  be,  when  in  all  probability  the 
nurse  "a  la  mode"  is  of  higher  birth  and  social  position 
than  the  family  in  which  she  takes  temporary  service, 
and  from  whom  she  receives  a  wage  of  from  two  to  three 
and  five  guineas  a  week.  Some  of  our  hospitals  refuse 
to  receive  any  pupils  who  are  not  "ladies,"  and  go  so 
far  as  to  consider  that  rural  and  district  nursing,  and 


104  THE  INN  OF  REST 

indeed  all  nursing,  should  be  kept  entirely  in  the  hands 
of  women  cultured  to  begin  with. 

No  doubt  many  daughters  of  rich  fathers  seek  hos- 
pital nursing  as  a  relief  from  the  idleness  of  home  life, 
and  in  the  bona-fide  hope  of  d£>ing  something  else  to 
help  suffering  humanity  in  various  ways,  but  there  are 
others  who  rush  in  for  it  in  a  pure  spirit  of  adventure, 
and  have  no  small  difficulty  in  bearing  the  strain  and 
restraints  of  the  compulsory  three  or  even  four  years' 
hospital  training.  Others  again  are  honestly  impelled 
to  it  by  necessity,  and  if  not  choked  off  by  the  scenes 
they  witness,  and  the  awful  glimpses  of  life  unveiled 
before  them,  they  bear  the  burden  well,  and,  taking 
matters  seriously,  turn  out  the  most  profitable  nurses  for 
the  institution,  and  the  most  valuable  to  the  world  at 
large.  The  pity  is  that  whatever  the  intellectual  calibre, 
the  motive,  the  temper,  and  temperament  of  the  woman, 
the  certificate  for  all  is  the  same,  and  she  stands  before 
the  world,  after  the  prescribed  three  or  four  years'  train- 
ingj  pronounced  competent  to  attend  the  sick  in  all  the 
various  and  varying  circumstances  of  life,  in  every  kind 
of  home.  When  the  certificate  is  once  obtained  she  has 
no  difficulty  in  joining  an  institution,  co-operative  or 
otherwise,  where  she  takes  her  turn  in  being  sent  hither 
and  thither  as  the  call  for  a  nurse  comes  in.  In  most 
of  these  institutions  it  is  the  rule  that  no  favor  is  shown, 
but  that  each  is  sent  out  in  turn.  This  plan — adopted  no 
doubt  with  a  view  to  fairness — leads  to  strange  situ- 
ations, and  often  accounts  for  young  and  pretty  women 
being  found  in  the  apartments  of  young  and  handsome 
men  who  for  the  time  are  enjoying  bad  health,  and  are 
not  imbued  with  any  wild  desire  for  convalescence.  In 
ordinary  circumstances  these  same  young  ladies  in  all 
probability  would  never  dream  of  setting  foot  in  bache- 
lors' apartments  without  a  chaperon,  but  given  a  reason- 
able and  grave  excuse,  the  door  is  thrown  open,  and 
a  young  woman  robed  in  a  costume  not  altogether  un- 
becoming enters,  to  mount  guard  day  and  night.  Some 
callow  young  men  are  at  first  horrified  at  the  idea  of 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  105 

having  a  woman  sent  in  to  nurse  them,  but  being 
obliged  to  submit,  their  astonishment  soon  subsides,  and 
reconciliation  quickly  follows. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  enter  into  details  concern- 
ing the  nature  of  a  nurse's  duties,  but,  however  delicate 
they  may  be,  the  training  is  supposed  to  have  the  won- 
derful effect  of  so  preserving  her  pristine  unconscious- 
ness that  the  man  is  to  her  the  same  as  the  child.  Never- 
theless we  do  occasionally  hear  of  wives  being  intensely 
jealous  of  the  woman  installed  in  the  husband's  bed- 
chamber. To  know  that  suspicion  is  not  always  unrea- 
sonable, we  have  only  to  study  the  records  of  the  Pro- 
bate Court  to  realize  the  extraordinary  influence  which 
has  occasionally  been  exercised  by  sick-nurses  over  sick 
men  in  their  last  illnesses. 

Not  long  ago  at  a  favorite  health  resort  on  the  Con- 
tinent, society  was  scandalized  at  the  behavior  of  a 
young  and  pretty  nurse  who  was  there  in  sole  attendance 
on  a  young  English  gentleman.  He  was  daily  carried 
into  a  garden,  where  all  the  gay  people  thronged,  and 
was  laid  on  a  chaise  tongue,  in  the  midst  of  them, 
followed  by  the  nurse,  who,  regardless  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  forthwith  got  another  chaise  longue,  and  plac- 
ing it  by  his  side  proceeded  to  stretch  herself  upon 
it.  When  whispers  became  an  audible  growl,  the  man- 
ager and  the  doctor  together  made  representations 
which  resulted  in  their  removal  to  a  villa.  The  end 
of  it  was  the  transference  of  the  invalid  to  another 
health  resort,  another  nurse  was  placed  in  charge,  and 
forsaking  the  old  love,  he  ultimately  married  the  new. 

In  the  daily  papers  a  few  months  ago,  under  the  head 
of  "Sudden  Death  of  a  Baronet,"  a  professional  nurse 
stated  that  "she  had  been  attending  deceased  for  some 
time  past.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  him 
shortly."  And  again  more  recently,  the  following  ap- 
peared in  the  daily  papers: 

"A  Scotch  Breach  of  Promise  Action. — In  the  Court 
of  Session,  Edinburgh,  yesterday,  the  record  was 
closed  in  an  action  by  C S ,  professional  nurse, 


106  THE  INN   OF  REST 

Edinburgh,  against  L C P ,  a  retired  col- 
onel, for  the  recovery  of  £3,000  damages  for  breach  of 
promise  of  marriage  and  seduction.  The  plaintiff,  who 
was  engaged  to  attend  the  defendant  as  nurse,  alleges 
that  he  took  a  fancy  to  her  and  proposed  marriage,  and 
on  her  accepting  the  offer  treated  her  as  his  wife.  In 
reply  to  her  request  that  they  should  be  married,  he  said 
they  were  already  married  according  to  the  Scotch  law. 
Although  appearing  willing  to  marry  her  he  failed  to 
fulfil  his  promise,  and  ultimately  turned  her  out  of  the 
house.  The  defendant  said  he  was  subject  to  malarial 
fever,  contracted  abroad;  he  also  had  delirium  tremens, 
and  plaintiff  when  called  in,  plied  him  with  drink,  and 
obtained  an  ascendency  over  him.  He  further  urges  that 
he  never  promised  marriage,  but  the  plaintiff  denied  the 
defendant's  statements." 

As  many  marriages  must  necessarily  spring  from  op- 
portunities which  present  themselves  all  along  the  line 
of  duty,  from  the  hospital  to  the  hotel  or  private  house, 
we  cannot  be  surprised  that  an  invidious  world  should 
style  this  new  profession  "The  new  road  to  matrimony," 
or,  as  the  St.  James's  Gazette  lately  had  it  over  an  ar- 
ticle on  nurses,  "To  the  altar  by  the  new  cut." 

Uncontrolled  by  vows,  untroubled  by  austerity,  the 
nurse  of  the  period,  guardian  of  the  sick-bed,  and 
watcher  over  the  solemn  moments  of  expiring  life,  may 
be  found  taking  part  joyously  in  many  of  the  frivolities 
around  us.  Abroad,  in  some  of  our  garrison  towns,  she 
may  be  seen  at  balls,  dressed  in  nursing  attire,  dancing 
with  the  young  officers  whom  she  has  recently  nursed 
or  may  be  called  on  to  nurse  in  the  future. 

Again,  it  is  not  unusual  either  at  home  or  abroad  to 
find  the  professional  nurse  sitting  at  table  d'hote,  the 
observed  of  all  observers,  in  the  bewitching  costume 
of  the  sisterhood  to  which  she  belongs.  Many  old-fash- 
ioned people  have  been  known  to  object  to  this  for 
social  reasons,  forgetting  that  the  nurse  of  the  period 
may  rank  socially  with  themselves.  Still,  not  alone  for 
reasons  of  propriety  but  for  reasons  of  health  and 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  107 

safety,  it  would  be  infinitely  better  to  keep  the  nursing 
dress  strictly  for  the  sick-room.  Not  long  ago  a  certifi- 
cated nurse  was  discovered  in  a  large  West-end  draper's 
shop  attired  in  the  very  dress  she  was  wearing  at  that 
time  in  the  sick-room  of  a  scarlet-fever  patient.  This 
of  course  was  in  violation  of  all  rules,  but  in  this  case 
private  remonstrance  had  so  little  effect  that  she  not  only 
continued  to  walk  in  the  same  dress,  but  even  went  in 
and  out  of  the  sick-room  after  being  fully  equipped  for 
her  walk.  This  same  highly  trained  nurse  was  further 
thoughtless  enough  to  allow  the  under-housemaid  to 
clear  away  the  faded  flowers  from  the  invalid's  bedside, 
and  instead  of  burning  them  allowed  them  to  be  thrown 
into  the  dust-heap,  thus  spreading  the  vital  seeds  of  in- 
fection broadcast,  to  break  out  again  in  all  probability 
in  the  wretched  homes  of  our  poorest  and  most  helpless 
fellow-creatures.  It  never  seems  to  occur  to  a  confiding 
public,  that  the  nursing  costume  can  be  anything  else  than 
a  harmless  vanity,  yet  in  the  face  of  such  a  possibility  as 
that  just  mentioned  it  ought  to  be  regarded  as  a  danger 
signal. 

One  of  the  lecturers  to  the  National  Health  Society, 
when  giving  a  lecture  on  nursing  at  an  English  village 
lately,  was  told  that  during  an  epidemic  of  scarlet  fever 
the  people  were  in  the  habit  of  shaking  the  sheets  out  of 
the  windows  to  get  rid  of  the  peeling  skin.  These  people 
were  too  ignorant  to  know  they  were  sowing  the  seeds 
of  the  fever,  which  their  neighbors  reaped ;  but  with  the 
trained  nurse  there  is  not  the  same  excuse,  unless  a 
knowledge  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  health  has 
been  left  out  of  her  education  altogether. 

In  directing  attention  to  such  cases  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  all  nurses  are  giddy  and  thoughtless,  for 
within  my  own  experience  and  that  of  others,  many 
an  ideal  nurse  has  been  found.  I  would  simply  indicate 
that  in  a  profession  which  ought  to  be  absolutely  above 
suspicion,  it  would  be  better  and  more  expedient,  to 
exercise  a  certain  amount  of  discrimination  in  sending 
nurses  out.  In  every  institution  there  must  be  nurses 


108  THE  INN   OF  REST 

of  every  age,  temperament,  and  degree,  who  with  a  lit- 
tle adjustment  might  be  found  to  fit  more  suitably  the 
requirements  of  a  public  consisting  of  men  and  women 
of  every  grade,  and  children  of  every  age. 

It  is  strange,  considering  the  manifold  requirements 
of  life,  that  so  little  is  done  to  encourage  the  training 
of  male  nurses  for  domestic  employment.  We  rarely 
hear  of  a  male  nurse  attending  sick  men,  except  in  men- 
tal cases,  yet  in  military  and  naval  hospitals  they  are 
thoroughly  trained,  with  the  additional  advantage  of 
discipline  and  drill.  In  one  institution  in  Bond  Street 
male  as  well  as  female  nurses  and  rubbers  may  be  had, 
and  in  Great  Marylebone  Street  a  male  nurses'  (tem- 
perance) co-operation  has  opened  an  office.  Among  the 
conditions  of  this  new  society  a  course  of  three  years' 
training  must  precede  membership ;  total  abstinence  is 
obligatory,  and  a  preference  is  given  to  married  men  with 
families.  No  doubt  th,ere  are  other  institutions  for  male 
nurses,  but  they  must  be  few  and  far  between,  for  we 
rarely  hear  of  a  male  nurse  being  in  attendance  where 
he  might  with  propriety  be  installed.  In  New  York 
a  great  movement  is  going  on  in  this  direction  notwith- 
standing opposition  and  clamor.  If  therefore  it  ever  be- 
came as  easy  to  send  a  male  nurse  as  a  female,  a  motherly 
married  nurse  (if  such  a  thing  exists),  or  unmarried  mid- 
dle-aged woman  (if  there  is  one),  in  place  of  the  young 
and  flighty,  many  of  the  present'  difficulties,  dangers,  and 
anomalies  would  be  overcome,  and  the  new  profession  as 
a  profession  would  take  a  more  dignified  place  in  public 
estimation. 

Passing  from  domestic  difficulties  we  must  now  review 
difficulties  of  another  sort — those  which  spring  in  the 
very  nature  of  things  from  the  training  and  medical  edu- 
cation given  to  nurses  in  these  advanced  days. 

We  have  only  to  look  over  the  following  course  of 
studies  which  is  a  fair  example  of  the  curriculum  adopted 
at  most  of  our  London  hospitals,  to  realize  that  a  nurse 
leaves  the  hospital  of  her  apprenticeship  stored  with  a 
considerable  amount  of  medical  knowledge. 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  109 

The  lectures  on  anatomy  and  surgery  are  delivered 
by  the  Demonstrator  of  Anatomy  during  the  months  of 
March,  April,  and  May.  There  is  a  written  examination, 
which  lady  pupils  must  attend,  at  the  end  of  the  course. 
The  following  is  the  syllabus : 

1.    The  skeleton  and  the  anatomy  of  the  limbs. 

II.     Simple  fractures,  and  the  principles  of  treatment. 

III.  Anatomy  of  the  joints.    Hip  diseases. 

IV.  The  spinal  column,  its  injuries  and  diseases. 
V.     Head  injuries  and  the  principles  of  treatment. 

VI.     Treatment  of  wounds.    Antiseptic  dressings. 
VII.     Hemorrhage  and  its  treatment. 
VIII.     Minor  surgical  operations. 
IX.     Tumors,  &c. 

The  lectures  on  physiology  and  medicine  are  delivered 
by  the  Demonstrator  of  Biology  during  the  months  of 
June,  July,  and  August.  There  is  a  written  examination, 
which  lady  pupils  must  attend,  at  the  end  of  the  course. 
The  following  is  the  syllabus : 

I.     Food:  its  digestion  and  absorption. 
II.    The  diseases  of  the  alimentary  canal. 
III.  and  IV.    The  lungs  and  respiration.    Diseases  of  the 

respiratory  organs. 
V.    The  heart  and  heart  disease. 
VI.    The  urine  and  diseases  of  the  kidney. 
VII.    The  skin  and  cutaneous  diseases. 
VIII.     Contagious  diseases. 
IX.  and  X.    The    nervous    system ;    nervous    diseases 

and  electrical  batteries. 
XI.     Diet;  clothing;  ventilation. 

During  the  months  of  December,  January,  and  Feb- 
ruary, the  lady  pupils  are  taught  the  elements  of  phar- 
macy and  dispensing,  in  the  dispensary  of  the  hospital, 
by  the  Head  Dispenser.  The  course  includes  a  series  of 
lessons  upon  the  sources,  properties,  and  uses  of  vari- 
ous drugs,  with  a  practical  instruction  in  the  preparation 
of  mixtures  which  lady  pupils  must  attend,  at  the  end  of 
the  course. 
If  they  fail  to  pass  their  examinations  they  are  re- 


110  THE   INN   OF  REST 

quired  to  go  through  the  course  again.  Thus  by  living 
on  the  spot,  surrounded  by  doctors,  watching  the  pro- 
gress of  cases  till  they  are  "relieved  by  art  or  released  by 
death";  by  living,  in  fact,  in  the  midse  of  object  lessons, 
day  and  night,  over  a  prolonged  period,  and  further  by 
attending  such  lectures,  the  modern  nurse  enjoys  advan- 
tages that  many  fully  fledged  doctors  might  envy.  For 
those  who  intend  to  remain  permanent  staff  sisters,  or 
to  become  hospital  matrons  in  the  future,  the  more  ad- 
vanced studies  might  advantageously  be  pursued,  but, 
all  being  trained  alike,  it  is  not  altogether  surprising  that 
a  little  confusion  arises  occasionally  in  the  highly  trained 
nurse's  mind  as  to  her  ultimate  position  in  regard  to  the 
patient  and  doctor.  When  once  she  is  launched  on  the 
world  she  is  often  called  to  attend  people  who  can  ill  af- 
ford the  fee  ranging  from  two  to  three  guineas  a  week  ex- 
clusive of  extras.  This  in  addition  to  the  doctor's  fees  fall 
'heavily  on  those  whose  means  are  small  and  whose  fam- 
ilies are  large.  With  a  nurse  on  the  spot  who  can  criti- 
cize the  treatment,  and  who  is  only  too  proud  to  air  her 
own  medical  knowledge,  it  is  quickly  felt  that  the  doc- 
tor's visits  may  be  curtailed,  and  with  the  undermining 
of  his  authority,  and  the  gradual  assumption  of  respon- 
sibility on  her  part,  friction  between  the  two  is  not  un- 
likely to  follow.  That  it  does  follow  is  not  unknown  be- 
hind the  scenes  of  medical  life,  for  nurses  have  occas- 
ionally been  dismissed  for  assuming  they  were  in  charge 
of  the  case,  instead  of  being  in  charge  of  the  doctor's  pa- 
tient. 

I  have  known  more  than  one  nurse  to  utterly  ignore  the 
doctor's  orders  with  regard  to  diet,  on  the  ground  that  he 
was  trenching  on  her  province.  "Oh,  we  never  consult 
the  doctor  about  diet,"  said  a  nurse  in  my  hearing  one 
day  to  the  lady's  maid  of  the  patient;  "we  always  at- 
tend to  that  ourselves!"  The  case  was  one  turning  en- 
tirely on  diet,  and  was  exercising  the  minds  of  several 
of  the  leading  consultants  of  London.  Another  I  knew 
of  refused  to  give  the  morphia  prescribed  by  the  doctor, 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  111 

saying,  "she  always  threw  it  away,  and  gave  milk  and 
water  instead,  which  did  just  as  well!" 

Dr.  Charles  West  in  his  book  refers  to  Sir  William 
Gull's  celebrated  saying  to  the  Queen  after  the  Prince 
of  Wales'  recovery  from  typhoid  fever.  "Madam,"  he 
said,  "His  Royal  Highness  has  been  nursed  as  well  as 
if  he  had  been  in  a  hospital." 

This  speech,  continues  Dr.  West,  points  out  the  weak 
points  of  many  of  the  nursing  associations.  The  nurse 
out  of  the  hospital  is  under  no  discipline.  She  is  a  sort 
of  free  lance,  engaged  in  combating  diseases  together  with 
the  doctor,  but  by  no  means  always  subject  to  his  di- 
rection. A  sentry  told  off  to  a  certain  post  must  remain 
there,  and  do  unquestionably  as  he  has  been  ordered. 
The  nurse  too  often  feels  herself  under  no  such  obli- 
gation. She  not  only  passes  her  own  judgment  on  the 
doctor's  orders,  but  too  often  criticizes  them  to  the  fam- 
ily, as  I  remember  in  a  case  under  the  care  of  one  of 
our  most  distinguished  surgeons,  and  an  officer  of  one 
of  our  largest  hospitals.  The  nurse  said  to  the  family 
with  reference  to  some  of  his  directions,  "Oh,  these  are 
old-style  ways ;  we  have  done  away  with  all  of  them,  and 
do  quite  differently  now." 

"Conceit  is  their  besetting  sin*  *  *  *Sometimes  the 
nurse  has  a  favorite  doctor,  and  disparages  the  one  in  at- 
tendance* *  *  *Not  infrequently,  too,  they  are  what,  if 
they  were  of  the  opposite  sex,  we  should  call  masterful, 
and  without  sufficient  reason  exclude  the  wife  or  the 
children  from  the  sick-room  without  making  up  for  it  by 
any  special  personal  interest  in  the  patient*  *  *  *I  re- 
member once  assisting  a  peeress,  whose  daughter,  of  still 
higher  rank  than  she,  was  dangerously  ill,  to  wash  the 
medicine  and  wine  glasses  on  the  sick-room  table,  be- 
cause the  nurse  considered  it  an  office  beneath  her." 

These  remarks  coming  from  an  experienced  London 
physician,  and  which  I  have  inserted  here  after  writing 
this  article,  go  far  to  confirm  my  own  views,  and  those 
of  many  others,  that  the  modern  nurse  is  too  often  above 


112  THE  INN  OF  REST 

her  position  even  in  great  houses,  and  in  more  humble 
homes  is  out  of  harmony  with  her  surroundings. 

One  of  the  objections  raised  to  the  high  training  of 
male  nurses  in  the  New  York  Hospital  is  the  fear  that 
men  will  make  it  a  stepping  stone  to  medical  practise,  le- 
gal or  otherwise.  The  line  of  demarcation  between  the 
certificated  male  nurse,  after  two  or  possibly  three  years' 
hospital  training  and  the  qualified  doctor,  is  so  slight  that 
boundaries  can  easily  be  overstepped.  A  little  further 
study,  a  few  examinations  to  pass,  and  the  portals  are 
opened  to  an  inferior  class  of  men.  Similar  objections 
might  apply  equally  to  women  nurses,  but  for  the  more 
serious  barrier  existing  between  the  certified  nurse  and 
the  fully  qualified  female  M.  D.  It  is  no  thin  line  of 
demarcation  here,  for  it  would  be  an  impossible  drop  for 
a  woman  accustomed  to  the  excitement  of  hospital  life, 
with  house  surgeons,  house  physicians,  students,  flir- 
tations, and  prospective  marriages,  to  enter  the  gates  of 
the  female  school  of  medicine,  and  walk  the  wards  of  a 
hospital  managed  solely  by  women;  and  this  she  would 
have  to  do  before  she  could  pass  into  the  world  a  fully 
qualified  doctor.  Still,  failing  the  legal  right  to  practise, 
there  remains  the  right  to  nurse,  with  the  delightful  fact 
that  the  two  things  are  easily  fused  together  in  the  public 
mind,  the  result  being  a  world  overrun  with  "medical 
women,"  legal  and  semi-legal.  The  legally  qualified 
might  with  some  reason  take  exception  to  the  encroach- 
ments of  this  army  of  medical  illegals  treading  on  their 
heels,  but  the  only  complaint  we  hear  of  on  the  part  of  the 
lady  doctors  is  the  difficulty  they  find  in  getting  modern 
trained  nurses  to  act  under  them  at  all ! 

At  the  present  moment  a  curious  and  interesting  dis- 
cussion is  going  on  in  one  of  the  nursing  journals  headed 
"The  Future  of  the  Private  Nurse,"  the  correspondents 
trying  to  find  reasons  for  the  waning  popularity  of  the 
trained  nurse.  Samples  of  bad  conduct  are  given.  One 
nurse  refuses  to  lift  a  patient  who  is  very  ill,  saying  "she 
was  not  trained  for  that  work."  Another  hung  the  tub- 
ing of  a  douche-can  on  the  nail  on  which  hung  a  large 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  113 

crucifix.  She  was  made  to  remove  it,  but  next  day  hung 
a  thermometer  in  the  same  place. 

A  still  more  grave  aspect  is  to  be  found  in  the  adver- 
tisements which  hold  out  as  an  attraction  to  young  men 
that  "Sister"  or  "Nurse"  So-and-so  is  the  masseuse  at 
such  an  establishment.  Behind  all  this  lies  a  question 
which  can  only  be  dealt  with  by  the  police,  and  which 
it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  here. 

Looking  at  the  question  of  modern  nursing  from  the 
more  moral  point  of  view,  we  find  the  district  and  rural 
poor  well  provided  with  good  and  faithful  nurses 
through  the  Queen's  Jubilee  Fund  and  various  public 
and  private  charities,  and  for  the  rich  there  are  plenty 
of  good  nurses  to  be  had ;  but  there  is  still  the  large  mid- 
dle class  unprovided  for,  and  who  find  the  ground  cut 
from  under  their  feet.  They  can  no  longer  get  a  nurse 
for  ten  shillings  or  a  guinea  a  week  as  formerly,  and  can- 
not afford  nor  provide  the  requirements  for  a  nurse 
"a  la  mode."  The  charges  being  universally  the  same 
for  the  simplest  as  for  the  most  complicated  case,  the  cost 
of  ordinary  and  prolonged  nursing,  especially  where  two 
are  required,  falls,  as  I  have  already  said,  heavily  on  the 
family.  Many  persons,  moreover,  object  to  the  sense  of 
superiority  exercised  by  the  nurse  over  them.  I  heard 
of  one  the  other  day  in  a  modest  establishment  who  en- 
tertained her  youthful  patient  with  an  account  of  her  do- 
ings in  the  hunting  field,  adding  that  she  always  had  a 
groom  behind  her. 

"Did  your  mother  keep  a  parlor-maid  ?"  asked  the  child 
simply.  "Oh  no,  dear,"  she  replied;  "my  father  kept 
a  butler!" 

At  a  conference  lately  held  at  Stafford  House  under  the 
auspices  of  the  "Council  of  County  Nursing  Associations," 
some  of  the  speakers  maintained  that  some  women  were 
efficient  nurses  from  the  beginning,  others  became  effi- 
cient with  experience,  and  others  were  hopeless  from  the 
first.  One  of  the  questions  under  discussion  was  the 
minimum  amount  of  training  required,  and  I  believe 
it  was  generally  agreed  that  one  year's  training  and 


114  THE  INN  OF  REST 

six  months'  district  work,  as  with  the  Queen's  Jubilee 
nurses  would  suffice. 

In  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital,  Baltimore  (the  finest 
and  most  perfect  hospital  in  the  world),  the  full  term  for 
the  training  of  nurses  is  two  years.  They  are  all  taught 
invalid  cookery,  and  are  thus  qualified  for  every  kind  of 
nursing  even  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  parts  of  the 
earth.  In  America  generally  two  years'  training  is  the 
maximum ;  in  Sweden  it  is  the  same ;  and  in  Copenhagen 
the  minimum  for  private  nursing  is  one  year. 

Surely  for  a  guinea  a  week  an  intelligent  woman  after 
a  minimum  training,  which  I  do  not  profess  to  decide, 
ought  to  understand  the  hygiene  of  the  sick-room,  know 
how  to  carry  out  the  instructions  of  the  doctor,  how  to 
make  the  bed,  keep  the  room  clean  if  necessary,  adapt 
herself  to  the  household,  and  render  strict  obedience  un- 
der a  sense  of  duty  and  in  simple  good  faith.  In  talking 
this  matter  over  the  other  day  with  some  of  our  most 
eminent  surgeons,  he  stated  his  belief  that  any  woman 
of  good  intelligence  could  soon  be  taught  all  that  it  was 
"necessary"  for  her  to  know  in  the  sick-room.  If  she  has 
not  intelligence  (which  includes  tact)  and  lacks  natural 
sympathy  and  tenderness,  no  amount  of  hospital  training 
will  endow  her  with  these  qualities.  It  may  be  pleaded 
that  we  should  be  opening  the  doors  of  this  new  pro- 
fession to  a  lower  class  of  women  altogether,  and  that 
the  main  object  of  the  higher  training  is  to  raise  the 
standard. 

Now,  in  every  class  there  are  good,  bad,  and  indifferent 
to  be  found — even  in  the  higher  class,  as  I  have  shown — 
and  in  making  the  suggestion  of  less  medical  training 
for  a  humbler  class  it  is  quite  possible  that  many  of  the 
difficulties  I  have  ventured  to  indicate  might  be  over- 
come through  the  wider  difference  in  class  between  nurse 
and  patient.  In  any  case,  what  we  want  is  to  fill  the 
immense  gap  that  exists  between  the  humble  celibate  of 
Roman  Catholicism  and  the  accomplished,  and  often  flip- 
pant women  of  modern  times.  That  the  public  should 
be  able  to  define  the  status  of  the  nurse  should  be  no 


NURSES  A  LA  MODE  115 

difficulty  in  these  days  of  registration,  badges,  institu- 
tions, and  organization  generally. 

For  complicated  abdominal  and  brain  operations,  and 
for  typhoid  fever,  the  highly  skilled  nurse  will  always  be 
necessary,  and  for  the  rich  she  can  always  be  obtained ; 
but  beyond  this  we  should  make  an  effort  to  satisfy  the 
requirements  of  those  who  neither  need  nor  desire  the 
presence  of  an  expensive  trained  nurse  any  more  than 
they  need  or  desire  the  daily  visits  of  a  first-class  consul- 
tant. 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL 

In  1862 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL. 

HE  external  aspect  of  our  metropolitan  hos- 
pitals is  familiarly  known  to  all  who  are 
accustomed  to  traverse  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don. Their  many  windows,  studded  by  day 
white-capped  heads,  and  shining  by  night 
the  pale  reflection  of  the  single  dimly  burn- 
ing lamp,  their  general  air  of  subdued  quiet,  and  their 
lynx-eyed  porters  at  the  gate,  ever  ready  to  pounce  upon 
suspicious  parcels  carried  by  visitors,  and  scanning  the 
passengers  as  if  to  detect  disease  lurking  under  a  healthy 
mask,  or  deformity  concealed  by  artificial  means — 
serve  to  -distinguish  these  buildings  from  prisons  and 
asylums,  to  which  some  of  them  have  no  small  resem- 
blance. With  the  exception  of  certain  newspaper  re- 
ports, and  a  general  idea  of  suffering,  evil  odors,  and 
liability  to  contagion,  the  inner  life  of  a  hospital  is  to- 
tally unknown  to  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  who 
pass  its  walls ;  and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  the  popular 
idea  of  hospital  life  is  widely  different  from  the  reality. 
Let  us,  therefore,  follow  the  course  of  a  day's  labor  in 
one  of  these  institutions;  and,  as  a  type  of  the  method 
in  which  the  medical  and  surgical  administration  of  a 
hospital  is  conducted,  we  will  select  the  most  ancient  of 
these  sanctuaries  of  suffering  poverty. 

Entering  Smithfield  about  9  or  10  A.  M.,  and  looking 
along  the  wide  front  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  a 
vast  crowd  is  seen  gathering  round  the  portico  close  to 
Duke  Street,  where  two  pillars  support  a  porchway,  un- 
der which  the  expectant  assemblage  can  shelter  them- 
selves until  their  admission.  Here  we  find  ourselves 
face  to  face  with  two  glass  doors,  bearing  conspicuous 
plates  upon  their  fronts,  one  labeled  ENTRANCE  FOR  MALES, 
and  the  other,  ENTRANCE  FOR  FEMALES.  Just  within 


120  THE   INN   OF   REST 

either  door  stands  a  trustworthy  porter,  whose  busi- 
ness is  to  keep  the  applicants  from  entering  at  the 
wrong  door,  a  blunder  which  they  constantly  attempt 
to  perpetrate  in  spite  of  the  large  plate  and  many  verbal 
warnings,  and,  after  admitting  the  patients,  to  direct 
them  to  their  proper  places. 

Passing  through  one  of  the  doors,  we  enter  a  large 
and  handsome  room,  nearly  one  hundred  feet  long  and 
about  thirty-five  feet  wide,  warmed  by  open  stoves, 
lofty  and  well  ventilated — an  absolute  necessity  under 
the  circumstances — divided  in  the  centre  by  a  red  cur- 
tain, and  furnished  with  abundant  benches,  arranged  in 
double  sets  on  each  side  of  the  curtain.  The  left-hand 
division  of  the  room  is  intended  for  women,  and  the  right- 
hand  division  for  men;  and  each  room  is  further  subdi- 
vided by  the  double  sets  of  benches,  one  being  for  sur- 
gical and  the  other  for  medical  cases. 

As  each  patient  passes  through  the  door,  the  porter 
inquires,  "What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  "Bad  arm, 
sir."  "Sit  down  there,"  says  the  porter,  pointing  to  one 
of  the  forms  on  the  surgical  side  of  the  room.  "What 
is  the  matter  with  you?"  "Please,  sir,  I  feel  bad  all  over 

entirely;  I  don't  eat  my  victuals,  and  I "  "Sit  down 

there,"  says  the  porter,  hastily  cutting  short  a  train  of 
symptoms,  and  pointing  to  the  medical  benches.  In 
a  wonderfully  short  time  the  benches  are  filled,  and  the 
inspection  of  the  patients  commences. 

The  receiving-room,  as  this  apartment  is  called,  is  at- 
tended by  the  apothecary,  his  assistant,  four  house-sur- 
geons, and  the  dressers,  who  examine  the  patients  in 
their  proper  turn,  and  make  a  further  separation  into 
three  classes — the  slight,  the  grave,  and  the  imminent. 
The  slight  cases  that  require  but  little  assistance  are  tech- 
nically termed  "casualties,"  and  attended  at  once ;  if  nec- 
essary, a  prescription  is  handed  over  to  them,  which  they 
take  to  a  large  window  opening  out  of  the  room, 
whereat  are  dispensed  vast  quantities  of  useful  and  harm- 
less remedies,  linseed  meal  being  a  very  large  pro- 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL.  121 

portion,  and  being  generally  carried  away  in  handker- 
chiefs. 

For  more  delicate  cases,  especially  those  of  a  surgi- 
cal nature,  the  patients  are  shown  into  separate  rooms, 
where  their  ailments  are  examined  and  proper  remedies 
applied.  These  slighter  cases,  or  casualties,  are  of  al- 
most every  imaginable  description.  In  many  instances 
the  single  attendance  is  all  that  is  needed ;  but  should 
further  care  be  required,  the  patient  is  told  to  return 
on  a  given  day,  and  a  notice  to  that  effect  is  placed  on 
a  paper. 

The  graver  of  these  cases  now  come  under  notice. 
They  are  classed  together  as  Out-patients,  and  are  mar- 
shalled into  separate  rooms;  and  as  the  patients  enter 
the  room,  they  each  receive  a  ticket  with  a  number,  in- 
dicating the  order  in  which  they  will  be  seen.  Out  of 
this  room  lead  two  small  chambers,  or  waiting-rooms, 
one  of  which  belongs  to  the  surgeon  of  the  day,  and 
the  other  to  the  physician  of  the  day;  this  duty  being 
taken  in  turns  by  the  medical  and  surgical  staff  of  the 
hospital.  All  these  gentlemen  are  men  of  great  emin- 
ence, holding  the  first  rank  in  their  profession,  so  that 
the  poorest  man,  woman,  or  child  that  seeks  for  help 
is  given  the  benefit  of  the  best  advice  in  the  kingdom, 
and  the  sick  costermonger  or  ailing  chimney-sweeper  is 
enabled  gratuitously  to  command  services  which  many 
a  wealthy  man  cannot  purchase.  The  waiting-rooms 
of  the  surgeon  and  physician  are  placed  in  close  prox- 
imity to  each  other,  so  that  in  any  difficult  case  an  im- 
mediate consultation  can  be  effected.  A  paper  is  de- 
livered to  each  patient,  on  which  is  written  the  name, 
age,  and  the  needful  prescription. 

This  prescription,  technically  termed  a  "letter,"  is 
then  carried  to  another  apartment,  having,  as  before,  one 
entrance  for  men  and  another  for  women,  a  wall  sep- 
arating them  from  each  other.  At  the  end  of  this  room 
is  a  large  window  opening  into  the  dispensary,  and  at  this 
window  the  prescriptions  are  received,  made  up,  and 
given  out.  In  order  to  obviate  the  scrambling,  jostling, 


122  THE  INN  OF  REST 

and  struggling  that,  according  to  British  custom,  would 
inevitably  take  place  without  precautions,  and  which 
would  be  highly  dangerous,  not  only  on  account  of  the 
patients  themselves,  but  of  the  children  which  many  of 
them  carry,  the  only  access  to  the  windows  is  by  means 
of  a  passage  through  iron  railings,  defended  by  a  turn- 
stile, so  that  the  patients  are,  perforce,  obliged  to  form 
a  line — a  queue,  as  it  would  be  termed  in  France — and  can 
only  pass  singly  to  the  window.  On  arrival,  they  de- 
posite  the  "letter,"  together  with  a  bottle  or  jar,  in  case 
they  require  liquid  medicine,  and  presently  receive  it 
back  filled  and  ticketed.  Legible  labels,  in  very  bold 
characters,  are  affixed  to  each  jar  or  bottle,  and,  in  or- 
der to  prevent  mistaken  administration  thereof,  all  medi- 
cines that  are  to  be  taken  internally  are  distinguished 
by  a  white  label,  and  all  external  applications  by  a 
gaudy  yellow,  one. 

Engaged  in  the  task  of  dispensing  the  medicines  are  four 
qualified  medical  men,  who  are  hard  at  work  for  five  or 
six  hours  daily  in  mixing,  labeling,  and  delivering  the 
various  remedies,  and  a  large  staff  of  experienced  work- 
men is  employed  in  preparing  the  drugs.  Yet  the  mul- 
titudes that  crowd  daily  to  this  room  are  so  great  that 
their  wants  could  not  be  supplied  in  twice  the  time,  were 
not  the  principal  drugs  kept  in  solution  or  other  forms 
which  are  suitable  for  rapid  measurement  and  immedi- 
ate combination. 

Having  seen  our  Out-patients  safely  through  their 
daily  progress  at  the  hospital,  we  come  to  the  cases  of  a 
severer  nature.  These,  termed  In-patients,  are  at  once 
taken  into  the  wards,  whither  let  us  follow  them. 

As  soon  as  they  enter  the  ward  they  are  delivered 
over  to  the  charge  of  the  "sister,"  or  matron,  as  the 
office  might  be  termed.  In  this  hospital,  however,  the 
matron  is  the  superior  who,  in  conjunction  with  the 
steward,  exercises  a  surveillance  over  the  whole  of  the 
wards,  and  the  head  nurse  of  each  ward  retains  the  name 
of  sister,  which  dates  from  time  immemorial.  To  a  novice 
the  hospital  nomenclature  is  often  rather  perplexing,  and 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  123 

to  the  outer  world  appears  almost  as  absurd  and  quite 
as  unintelligible  as  the  slang  terms  of  a  public  school 
to  all  who  have  not  been  educated  within  its  walls.  For 
example,  as  soon  as  the  sister  enters  upon  her  office,  she 
loses  the  name  by  which  she  is  known  to  her  friends, 
and  is  henceforth  called  by  that  of  her  ward,  the  result 
being  sometimes  rather  amusing.  The  inmates  talk  with 
easy  composure  of  a  male  sister,  meaning  thereby  the 
sister  of  a  male  ward ;  and  though  such  names  as  Sister 
Abernethy,  Sister  Queen,  Sister  Elizabeth,  and  Sister 
Faith,  seem  appropriate  enough,  yet  a  stranger  cannot 
but  feel  slightly  startled  when  he  hears  a  summons  for 
Sister  John,  Sister  Henry,  Sister  Matthew. 

The  sister  is  the  mainspring  of  each  ward,  and  it  is 
noteworthy  that  before  she  has  taken  office  for  many 
weeks,  her  individual  character  becomes  so  deeply 
stamped  upon  the  entire  ward,  that  a  practised  observer 
can  deduce  the  character  of  the  sister  from  the  first 
glance  round  the  little  domain  under  her  superinten- 
dence. Nothing  seems  to  be  so  fatal  to  the  prosperity 
of  a  ward  as  indecision  in  the  sister,  who  stands  in  much 
the  same  relation  to  the  patients  as  a  schoolmaster  to 
his  pupils,  and  whose  measure  is  taken  in  by  the  pa- 
tients with  the  instinctive  accuracy  of  sickness.  Strange 
to  say,  the  inhabitants  of  a  ward  rather  like  the  sister 
to  be  sharp,  decided,  and  driving,  one  who  knows  her 
work,  does  it,  and  insists  upon  all  under  her  charge  do- 
ing the  whole  of  their  duty  to  the  minute.  None  seem 
to  be  more  successful,  or  to  gain  more  respect  and  real 
affection  from  the  patients,  than  the  thorough-bred 
Anglo-Saxon  woman — quick,  keen-eyed,  brisk  of  move- 
ment, incisive  of  speech,  and  a  disciplinarian  of  military 
rigidity.  Her  ward  and  private  room  are  generally 
bright  with  flowers  sent  by  discharged  patients  in  kindly 
remembrance  of  her  services,  or  brought  by  their  country 
friends,  in  flat,  circular  messes  of  leaf,  bloom,  and  flower, 
like  huge  warming-pans  of  concentric  colors,  which  to 
the  rustic  mind  is  the  very  acme  of  floral  arrangement. 
All  the  green  forms  a  backing,  and  radiates  gloriously 


124  THE   INN   OF   REST 

from  the  outer  circle;  all  the  red  flowers  form  the  next 
ring;  then  come  the  white  flowers,  then  the  purple,  and 
the  centre  is  generally  florid  with  a  full-blown  sunflower. 

Flowers,  however,  are  the  only  gifts  permitted  to  be 
offered  by  patients  and  their  friends,  or  accepted  by  the 
sister  or  nurse,  and  even  this  relaxation  of  a  necessarily 
stringent  rule  is  mostly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  flowers 
are  distributed  through  the  ward,  and  by  their  fresh 
brightness  and  delicious  perfume,  become  the  common 
property  of  patients,  nurses,  and  sisters,  and  aid  in  re- 
lieving the  monotonous  aspect  which  such  an  apart- 
ment invariably  possesses.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  rule  so 
sternly  enforced  as  that  which  prohibits  fees  or  pres- 
ents of  any  kind  to  be  accepted  by  any  person  employed 
in  attending  on  the  patients.  Of  course  there  are  in- 
stances now  and  then  where  money  is  offered  and  ac- 
cepted; but  if  the  delinquency  be  discovered,  the  of- 
fender is  at  once  turned  off  without  hope  of  pardon,  and 
the  patient  is  discharged  if  the  state  of  health  will  allow 
of  removal.  The  hospital  is  a  free  one  in  the  widest 
sense  of  the  term.  No  letters  from  governors  are  needed, 
no  introduction,  and  no  interest,  and  the  only  recommen- 
dation is  the  necessity  of  the  case.  All  persons  admitted 
into  the  wards  are  fed  and  supplied  with  every  necessary 
and  many  luxuries  without  any  charge  whatever;  in 
cases  of  extreme  poverty  they  are  provided  with  decent 
clothing  and  pecuniary  assistance  when  they  are  dis- 
charged, and  there  is  also  a  fund  which  gives  a  small 
pension  to  a  certain  number  of  incurables. 

Many  vagabond  impostors  are  accustomed  to  wait 
upon  those  kind-hearted  people  whose  benevolence  is 
right  well  known  to  exceed  their  knowledge  or  discre- 
tion, and  to  represent  themselves  as  needing  the  aid 
of  the  hospital,  but  unable  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
institution  because  they  have  not  the  required  amount 
of  clothing,  and  sufficient  money  to  pay  the  nurses'  fees, 
or  to  provide  themselves  with  tea  and  sugar.  Any  phil- 
anthropic person  who  reads  this  paper,  and  is  subject  to 
such  an  application,  is  hereby  warned  that  imposition 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  125 

is  intended,  and  is  strongly  advised  to  hand  over  the 
applicant  to  the  police  on  a  charge  of  obtaining  money 
on  false  pretences. 

,To  return  to  the  sister.  She  is  the  supreme  sovereign 
of  her  domains,  as  is  indeed  necessary  in  such  an  institu- 
tion, and  before  she  has  been  very  long  in  the  situation 
becomes  quite  an  accomplished  physician  or  surgeon, 
according  to  the  nature  of  her  ward.  One  of  her  chief 
duties  is  to  watch  every  patient,  and  note  every  new 
symptom,  and  if  she  sees  any  change  that  she  deems 
important,  to  send  immediately  to  the  medical  man  in 
charge  of  the  ward  and  report  it  to  him.  She  also  ad- 
ministers all  medicines,  and  is  responsible  for  the  proper 
measurement  of  every  remedy,  as  well  as  for  its  recep- 
tion by  the  patient. 

Generally,  however,  there  is  little  need  of  urging  medi- 
cine on  the  patients,  no  matter  how  distasteful  it  may 
be.  The  class  of  people  who  form  the  bulk  of  the  hos- 
pital population  have  an  almost  Oriental  veneration  for 
"physic,"  or  "stuff,"  and  really  seem  to  be  gratified  in 
exact  proportion  to  its  unpalatable  flavor.  Pills,  as  a 
rule,  they  despise;  powders  they  detest,  these  articles 
not  coming  under  the  honored  apellatives  of  "physic"  or 
"stuff";  but  the  treatment  for  which  they  have  the 
greatest  respect  is  a  good  draught,  dark-colored  to  look 
strong,  plenty  of  it,  and  horribly  nasty.  They  like  to  feel 
that  justice  is  done  to  them,  and  that  they  are  not  put 
off  with  weak  and  tasteless  remedies. 

As  an  example  of  this  feeling  may  be  cited  the  case 
of  one  of  the  large  gaols,  where  the  prisoners,  though 
perfectly  well,  had  got  into  an  increasing  habit  of  de- 
claring themselves  ill  and  wanting  medicine.  Finding 
that  the  number  on  the  sick  list  was  daily  augmented, 
and  knowing  perfectly  well  that  the  men  were  in  good 
health,  but  wished  to  shirk  their  daily  tasks,  the  surgeon 
— at  that  time  new  to  this  line  of  business — attempted  to 
disgust  the  feigned  sufferers  by  mixing  the  most  naus- 
eous draughts  that  the  druggist's  shelves  could  supply. 
But,  to  his  astonishment,  the  remedy  had  exactly  the  op- 


126  THE  INN   OF  REST 

posite  effect.  The  men  were  charmed  with  the  medicine 
— real  strong  doctor's  stuff,  and  no  sham  about  it,  which 
you  could  taste  for  a  fortnight.  At  last  the  surgeon  be- 
thought himself  of  changing  his  tactics,  and  instead 
of  draughts,  put  the  patients  on  a  course  of  pills  and 
powders.  The  effect  was  magical ;  the  sick  list  was  sud- 
denly suspended ;  all  the  men  in  the  sick  room  recovered, 
and  no  others  came  into  it. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  best  time  to  find  a  patient  in 
the  sweetest  of  tempers  is  to  watch  him  take  a  very  nasty 
draught,  and  then  to  go  and  talk  to  him  while  he  is 
shaking  his  head  and  shuddering  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  its  flavor.  A  fine  large  blister,  too,  is  a  thing  to  be 
proud  of;  it  proves  that  the  doctors  are  not  neglectful  of 
the  case,  and  affords  subject  of  conversation  for  several 
days.  A  patient  of  the  regular  sort  always  wants  to 
show  his  blister,  and  is  quite  proud  if  you  look  at  him 
while  being  leeched.  It  is  probable  that  one  cause  of  this 
remarkable  idiosyncrasy  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the 
monotony  of  life  in  bed  is  relieved  by  active  treatment, 
and  that  the  greater  number  of  patients  are  very  illiter- 
ate, unable  to  divert  themselves  by  reading,  and  cut 
off  from  the  coarse  amusements  which  they  love  best 
when  in  health. 

Let  us  now  visit  a  few  of  the  wards,  taking  one  or  two 
of  each  kind.  Of  course,  the  male  and  female  wards  are 
quite  distinct,  except  that  children  of  both  sexes  are  re- 
ceived in  the  female  wards.  The  wards  are  again  di- 
vided into  medical  and  surgical,  and  the  latter  are  again 
subdivided  into  accident,  chronic,  and  operation  wards, 
so  that  it  is  easy  for  one  who  knows  the  hospital  to 
find  the  whereabouts  of  any  patient  whose  name  and 
ailment  are  given.  The  accident  wards  are  placed  on 
the  ground  floor,  in  order  to  avoid  the  injury  that  might 
be  done  by  carrying  the  sufferer  up  and  down  stairs. 
On  entering  one  of  these  wards,  we  find  ourselves  in  a 
very  large  room,  divided  along  the  middle  by  a  parti- 
tion wall  so  as  to  form  two  separate  apartments.  These 
are  technically  known  by  the  names  of  front  and  back 


127 

wards,  because  the  windows  of  the  front  wards  look 
into  the  large  square  of  the  hospital,  and  those  of  the 
back  ward  open  into  the  space  between  the  actual  hos- 
pital and  the  buildings  belonging  to  it.  These  form  a 
double  square,  one  within  the  6ther,  and  in  the  centre 
of  the  large  square  a  plot  of  ground  is  laid  out  as  a  gar- 
den, with  a  fountain  playing  in  its  midst  and  gold  fish 
swimming  in  the  basin.  This  basin  is  often  the  medium 
for  experiments  on  various  aquatic  animals,  which  im- 
mediately become  objects  of  absorbing  interest  to  the 
convalescent  patients. 

The  partition  does  not  extend  quite  to  the  end  of  the 
room,  but  leaves  a  passage  between  the  front  and  back 
wards.  A  fire-place  with  various  appliances  is  set  in 
the  midst  of  the  partition,  and  a  large  supply  of  hot 
water  is  constantly  maintained.  This  is  an  absolute  nec- 
essity, as  there  are  cases  where  an  immediate  warm 
bath  affords  the  only  hope  of  saving  life;  and  on  look- 
ing outside  the  wards  we  shall  see  on  each  landing  a 
full-length  bath  on  wheels  covered  with  caoutchouc, 
which  can  be  drawn  into  the  ward,  filled  with  warm 
water,  and  the  patient  placed  therein  in  the  space  of 
five  minutes ;  it  is  indeed  got  ready  while  he  is  being  un- 
dressed. The  use  of  the  bath  is  one  of  the  principal  in- 
stitutions of  the  hospital.  All  in-patients  are  obliged  to 
subject  themselves  to  the  cleansing  medium  of  a  warm 
bath  before  they  are  placed  in  bed,  none  being  exempt 
from  this  rule  but  those  who  are  seriously  injured  or 
greatly  weakened  by  illness.  There  are  also  two  sets  of 
warm,  cold,  and  shower  baths  for  the  use  of  the  out-pa- 
tients, furnished  with  every  requisite,  and  being  served 
by  persons  appointed  to  this  special  office. 

As  a  rule,  each  ward  contains  twenty  full-sized  beds 
for  adults  and  two  cots  for  children,  half  being  in  the  front 
and  the  other  half  in  the  back  ward.  There  is  a  wide 
space  between  every  bed;  and  the  room  is  so  lofty,  and 
the  ventilation  so  good  that  the  air  is  purer  than  in 
many  a  magnificently  furnished  drawing-room.  At  the 
end  of  the  ward,  and  close  by  the  door,  is  the  sister's 


128  THE  INN   OF  REST 

room,  where  she  sits  like  a  spider  in  her  web,  ready  to 
pounce  out  at  every  strange  step,  and  to  arrest  the  pro- 
gress of  any  one  not  entitled  to  admission.  Altogether 
there  are  650  beds  in  the  hospital,  400  of  which  are  de- 
voted to  surgery,  and  the  rest  to  medicine. 

We  have  just  entered  a  surgical  ward,  where  are  the 
cases  demanding  the  severest  treatment,  and  in  which 
the  popular  idea  of  such  places  supposes  that  dreadful 
sights  and  fearful  sounds  are  seen  and  heard  continually. 
Sounds  certainly  are  heard,  but  they  are  generally  sounds 
of  merriment,  the  patients  of  a  surgical  ward  being,  as  a 
general  rule,  remarkably  lively.  The  greater  number 
of  them  find  themselves  better  off  than  they  ever  were 
in  their  lives ;  they  get  far  better  food  than  the  ill-cooked 
meals  to  which  they  are  accustomed ;  they  mostly  have 
rather  more  than  they  can  manage  to  eat;  they  have  no 
work  to  do,  and  are  perfectly  well  in  health.  So  their 
only  object  is  to  amuse  themselves,  and  this  task  they 
undertake  with  right  good  will.  The  "scholar"  of  the 
ward  is  generally  induced  to  read  aloud  out  of  some 
of  the  many  books  provided  for  the  patients,  among 
which  our  old  friends,  "Black  Giles  the  Poacher," 
"Tawny  Rachel,"  "Hester  Wilmot,"  "The  Way  to 
Plenty,"  and  others  of  that  thoroughly  genuine  series, 
are  deservedly  the  favorites.  Puzzle-making  now  and 
then  runs  through  the  hospital  like  an  epidemic;  and 
for  two  or  three  months  kettle-holders  were  manufac- 
tured in  such  profusion  that  the  family  of  each  patient 
might  be  supplied,  and  each  ward  set  up  in  those  ar- 
ticles for  the  next  few  years.  Water-colors  are  always 
in  great  favor,  and  the  liberality  with  which  Prussian 
blue,  vermilion,  and  yellow  ochre  are  lavished  upon  sail- 
ors, bandits,  and  Mr.  Kean  as  Othello,  is  as  amusing 
as  the  result  is  remarkable. 

Now  and  then  comes  a  patient  of  more  sense  than  his 
fellows,  who,  feeling  that  he  will  be  confined  to  the  hos- 
pital for  several  months,  sets  boldly  to  work  and  tries 
heartily  to  improve  his  mind  or  learn  some  new  art. 
Such  patients  are  most  grateful  for  a  word  or  two  of  help, 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  129 

and  it  is  very  pleasant  to  find  them  asking  the  surgeon  or 
the  chaplain  to  lend  them  books  of  a  higher  class  than 
those  which  are  supplied  to  the  wards.  Latin  and  French 
grammars,  books  in  those  languages,  and  Euclid  have 
repeatedly  been  lent,  and  have  always  been  honorably 
delivered  to  the  sister  before  the  borrower  has  left  the 
ward.  A  few  years  ago  one  patient  amused  himself  with 
oil  paint,  and  after  decorating  all  the  flower-pots  and 
saucers  in  arabesque  patterns,  became  ambitious  and 
tried  to  copy  landscapes.  Being  a  persevering  man, 
with  some  taste  for  color  and  a  good  eye  for  form,  he 
succeeded  marvelously  well,  and  actually  sold  his  pro- 
ductions as  fast  as  he  could  paint  them. 

There  is  a  wonderful  diversity  in  the  patients,  who, 
however,  fall  naturally  into  classes,  and  might  be  labeled 
and  docketed  like  specimens  in  a  museum.  There  is,  for 
example,  the  take-it-easy  patient,  who  never  does  any- 
thing in  particular — never  reads,  never  hurries  himself, 
would  as  soon  lose  his  leg  as  keep  it,  and  would  probably 
be  quite  unconcerned  if  the  question  referred  to  his  head ; 
perfectly  contented,  not  in  the  least  haste  to  recover,  and 
is,  in  fact,  an  illogical  optimist  of  the  first  water. 

Then  there  is  the  confirmed  grumbler,  who  is  never 
pleased  about  anything,  but  always  gets  the  best  of 
everything;  growls  sotto  voce  at  the  doctors,  yells  lustily 
when  touched,  declines  to  answer  inquiries  after  health, 
or  only  after  several  solicitations;  allows  the  solitary 
word  "Wuss"  to  escape  his  lips,  and  then  shuts  his 
mouth  tightly,  and  looks  at  the  ceiling.  (N.  B. — He  is 
really  much  better,  and  improves  daily.)  When  he  is 
allowed  to  dress,  he  monopolizes  the  best  place  by  the 
fire  and  the  pleasantest  seat  at  the  window,  and  there 
sits  taciturnly  morose  until  he  gets  his  dinner,  which  he 
eats  rapidly  and  abuses  it  the  while.  In  fine,  he  is  the 
wet  blanket  of  the  ward,  and  as  soon  as  he  is  fairly  out 
of  it  a  burst  of  sunshine  seems  to  irradiate  its  inmates. 
Two  or  three  of  these  grumblers  are  generally  found  in 
a  ward  in  the  course  of  a  year. 

To  counteract  the  effect  of  this  unpleasant  personage, 


130  THE  INN  OF  REST 

there  is  usually  the  benevolent  patient,  who  becomes  the 
life  of  the  ward,  ready  to  help  every  one,  and  never 
thinking  of  himself.  Lame  as  he  is  himself,  he  hobbles 
along  to  assist  his  neighbor  who  has  risen  for  the  first 
time,  and  is  tremblingly  endeavoring  to  move  on  un- 
accustomed crutches.  He  reads  aloud  for  the  benefit  of 
the  unlearned ;  he  "chaffs"  the  grumbler,  and  neutralizes 
his  complaining;  he  helps  ignorant  but  industrious  pa- 
tients in  their  reading  and  writing;  and,  when  he  at  last 
sits  down,  some  small  boy  usually  contrives  to  slide  on 
one  knee,  and  the  cat  jumps  on  the  other. 

Cats,  by  the  way,  are  among  the  great  institutions  of 
a  hospital,  and  on  a  very  small  average,  each  ward  has  a 
cat  and  two-thirds.  They  always  have  their  particular 
allies  among  the  patients,  sometimes  choosing  the  rough- 
est and  burliest  for  their  friends;  and  it  has  a  most  ab- 
surd effect  to  see  the  rough,  shaggy  face  of  a  navvy, 
and  the  smooth,  sleek  head  of  the  cat,  amicably  repos- 
ing on  the  same  pillow;  and  the  man's  half  apologetic 
but  kindly  grin  is  a  sight  really  worth  seeing. 

Then  there  is  the  religious  patient,  a  not  unfrequent 
and  invaluable  inmate  of  a  ward,  effecting  wonders  by 
the  mere  force  of  example,  unwilling  to  talk  about  him- 
self, generally  rather  silent  for  a  time,  but  always  having 
something  sensible  to  say  when  the  crust  of  reserve 
is  broken  through. 

As  a  contrast,  there  now  and  then  comes  into  the  ward 
the  controversial  patient,  mostly  a  brand  new  convert, 
always  obtrusive  and  obnoxious,  and  who  generally  has 
to  be  silenced  by  the  threat  of  expulsion.  A  contro- 
versial drayman  seems  rather  an  anomaly,  but  one  of  the 
wards  was  actually  honored  by  that  example — let  us 
hope  an  unique  one — a  drayman  who  had  been  con- 
verted to  some  newfangled  notions,  who  contrived  a  few 
days  afterwards  to  let  the  wheel  of  his  own  dray  run 
over  his  leg,  and  who  was  brought  into  the  hospital  with 
a  zeal  red  hot  as  his  face.  Since  drays  were  invented 
there  never  was  such  a  drayman,  and  it  is  to  be  devoutly 
hoped  that  there  never  will  be  such  another.  He  tried 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  131 

to  convert  the  surgeon,  the  sister,  the  nurses,  the  pa- 
tients, the  chaplain,  the  dressers,  and  the  beadles.  He 
occupied  the  bed  at  the  end  of  the  ward,  called  technically 
the  state  bed,  because  it  is  exactly  the  same  as  all  the 
others ;  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  any  one  enter  the  door,  he 
would  in  a  stentorian  voice  demand  their  opinion  of  cer- 
tain points  of  doctrine.  He  had  piles  of  the  fattest  books 
in  the  smallest  type,  and  would  insist  on  reading  pas- 
sages aloud,  to  the  great  disadvantage  of  his  own  health. 
He  would  not  keep  himself  quiet,  and  there  were  seri- 
ous thoughts  of  transferring  him  to  a  separate  room, 
where  his  leg  might  have  a  chance  of  mending,  and  where 
he  might  get  up  his  arguments  for  proselytizing  his  fel- 
low-draymen after  his  discharge. 

There  is  always  a  tolerable  sprinkling  of  foreigners, 
unable  to  speak  English,  and  very  ingenious  in  estab- 
lishing a  pantomimic  language.  They  get  on  very  well 
with  their  fellow-patients;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  see  the 
sudden  brightening  of  the  face  when  addressed  in  their 
own  language.  Now  and  then  a  negro  finds  admission; 
quiet,  mostly  useful,  with  a  subdued  but  contented  look, 
and  a  pair  of  soft  brown  eyes  like  those  of  a  spaniel, 
grateful  for  the  least  attention,  and  with  a  pleasant  smile 
displaying  a  double  row  of  white  and  regular  teeth  that 
would  make  a  dentist's  fortune.  Irish  patients  are  al- 
ways plentiful,  as  they  have  a  habit  of  partaking  freely 
of  the  beverage  of  their  country,  ascending  tall  ladders 
with  loads  on  their  shoulders,  traversing  narrow  planks 
at  immense  heights,  and  very  naturally  falling  to  the 
ground  accompanied  by  their  hods.  They  do  not,  how- 
ever, seem  to  hurt  themselves  much;  and  horrifying  as 
these  accidents  really  are,  some  of  them  seem  rather  to 
belong  to  the  mimic  regions  of  pantomime  than  of  dread 
reality,  the  results  being  equally  harmless  in  either  case. 

After  watching  for  some  years  the  accidents  that  en- 
ter the  walls  of  a  hospital,  three  conclusions  are  ar- 
rived at :  First,  that  the  apparent  severity  of  an  accident 
is  by  no  means  proportioned  to  its  effects  upon  the  suf- 
ferer; second,  that  accidents  seldom  occur  singly;  and 


132  THE  INN  OF  REST 

third,  that  certain  accidents  generally  take  place  about 
the  same  time  of  the  year.  So  that  an  experienced  sis- 
ter can  mostly  predict  the  kind  of  work  which  will  be 
given  to  her  as  soon  as  she  sees  the  patient  being  brought 
towards  her  ward.  The  apparent  impunity  with  which 
some  men  suffer  the  most  fearful  casualties  is  quite  as 
remarkable  as  the  fatal  effects  of  a  mere  trivial  injury 
on  others.  One  man,  for  example,  being  in  a  room  where 
some  forty  pounds  of  powder  exploded,  was  blown 
through  a  wooden  partition  and  landed  on  the  grass,  not 
very  much  the  worse,  except  that  he  was  rather  stunned, 
very  black,  and  could  not  for  some  time  exactly  com- 
prehend what  had  occurred.  Another  fell  off  the  top 
of  a  lofty  house  upon  a  heap  of  bricks,  and  was  shot 
into  a  basket  with  such  force  that  he  had  to  be  cut  out 
with  a  knife.  He  left  the  ward  in  a  few  weeks, 
quite  recovered.  Another  fell  flat  on  the  stone  flooring 
of  a  new  chapel,  from  a  height  of  fifty  feet,  and  was  dis- 
charged in  a  week  or  two,  without  even  a  bone  broken. 
Yet,  though  one  man  will  sustain  some  such  terrible  ac- 
cident without  much  danger,  another  will  just  step  off  the 
curbstone  and  be  picked  up  with  compound  fracture  of 
both  legs.  Indeed  curbstones  and  orange-peel  are  re- 
sponsible for  a  wonderfully  large  percentage  of  accidents, 
and  the  police  really  ought  to  prevent  orange-peel  from 
being  flung  on  the  foot  pavement. 

Again  there  seems  to  be  an  epidemic  in  accidents  as 
in  diseases.  If  one  man  is  brought  to  the  hospital  in 
consequence  of  falling  off  a  scaffold,  four  or  five  more 
are  sure  to  enter  from  the  same  cause,  though  the  acci- 
dents may  have  occurred  in  different  parts  of  London. 
And  if  an  accident  of  some  peculiar  nature  happen,  a 
second  is  nearly  sure  to  follow  before  long.  For  ex- 
ample, there  was  a  stationer's  apprentice  brought  in 
with  a  severe  injury  to  the  chest,  caused  by  falling  off 
the  steps  with  a  ream  of  brown  paper  in  his  hands,  the 
corner  of  the  package  coming  on  his  chest.  He  was 
hardly  settled  in  bed  when  another  stationer's  appren- 
tice was  brought  to  the  same  ward,  having  met  with 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  133 

exactly  the  same  misfortune.  There  really  seem  to  be 
some  laws  which  govern  accidental  injuries  as  well  as 
diseases,  for  at  one  time  people  get  blown  up  by  explod- 
ing boilers;  at  another  time  they  get  run  over;  at  an- 
other they  get  crushed  in  machinery  (boys  are  espec- 
ially liable  to  this  kind  of  injury)  ;  at  another  they  break 
their  knee-caps ;  and  at  another  they  fall  down-stairs. 

None  of  these  accidents  have  any  bearing  on  the 
time  of  year,  but  there  are  others  which  can  clearly 
be  referred  to  causes  connected  with  the  weather  or  the 
temperature.  Winter,  of  course,  brings  many  inmates 
who  have  fallen  on  slides,  or  slipped  off  the  icy  curbstone. 
Fearful  cuts  are  often  occasioned  by  the  sharp  edges  of 
ice,  and  in  some  instances  are  of  a  severer  character  than 
those  inflicted  by  broken  glass.  Bricklayers  and  ma- 
sons mostly  injure  themselves  in  the  summer  and  warm 
months;  and  the  Irish  hodmen  are  generally  wonderful 
specimens  of  their  race. 

The  connection  between  the  time  of  the  year  and  the 
kind  of  accident  is,  however,  most  apparent  in  children. 
In  the  summer  they  are  run  over  by  wagons,  or  pushed 
down  areas  by  their  companions.  Towards  the  end  of 
autumn  they  set  their  pinafores  on  fire,  and  drink  out 
of  spouts  of  teapots  and  boiling  kettles ;  and  about  spring 
they  generally  begin  to  fall  out  of  two-pair-back  win- 
dows. 

The  children  are,  indeed,  among  the  sights  of  a  hos- 
pital. On  first  admission  there  is  nothing  but  wailing 
and  crying  after  mammy;  but  in  a  day  or  two  they  are 
perfectly  reconciled,  and  become  quite  talkative.  They 
are  generally  great  pets  among  the  other  patients,  be- 
ing treated  as  living  dolls,  and  gratified  in  every  way, 
until  they  are  as  noisily  sorrowful  at  being  forced  to 
leave  the  hospital  as  when  they  first  entered  its  walls. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  a  child  has  made  itself  so  ill 
by  constant  crying  after  its  playmates  that  the  mother 
has  been  forced  to  bring  it  back  again.  They  have  toys 
in  profusion,  dolls  of  course  holding  the  pre-eminence, 
and  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  dolls  have  exactly 


134  THE  INN  OF  REST 

the  same  complaint  as  their  little  owners.  Mostly,  the 
children  are  very  well  behaved,  and  when  they  are  noisy 
it  is  on  account  of  the  exuberant  spirits  of  childhood. 
Now  and  then  there  is  a  peevish,  fretful  child,  who  re- 
fuses to  be  pacified,  and  is  a  considerable  nuisance  to 
the  other  patients.  But  of  all  the  unpleasant  inhabitants 
of  a  ward,  the  very  worst  is  an  Irish  child  accompanied 
by  its  mother.  The  child  would  do  well  enough,  but  the 
mother  is  so  very  energetic  in  her  grief  that  the  little 
thing  can  get  no  rest.  She  rocks  herself  backward  and 
forward ;  she  bewails  her  sad  lot  in  the  most  fluent  man- 
ner and  the  loudest  tones,  breaking  every  now  and  then 
into  a  prolonged  howl;  she  claps  her  hands  in  cadence 
with  her  lamentations,  and  no  sooner  has  the  child  fal- 
len asleep  that  she  wakes  it  with  her  demonstrative  sor- 
row, and  sets  it  crying  afresh. 

One  of  the  chief  benefits  of  this,  as  well  as  of  other 
similar  institutions,  is  the  instantaneous  readiness  for  any 
emergency  at  any  hour.  We  will  take  an  extreme  case, 
and  suppose  that  in  the  dead  of  night  a  poor  man,  en- 
deavoring to  escape  through  the  window  of  a  burning 
house,  falls  into  the  street,  and  in  one  moment  lies  stun- 
ned and  bleeding  on  the  ground,  having  evidently 
suffered  injuries  so  severe  that  none  but  medical  men 
dare  to  meddle  with  him.  A  messenger  is  despatched 
to  the  nearest  police  station,  and  in  a  very  short  time  a 
couple  of  stalwart  men  make  their  appearance,  bearing 
a  litter  expressly  constructed  for  such  emergency.  With 
their  gentle  but  strong  and  practised  hands  they  place  the 
poor  wounded  form  on  the  stretcher,  and  bear  the  suf- 
ferer to  the  hospital  gates.  Meanwhile,  all  is  in  commo- 
tion within  the  halls,  but  no  one  is  at  all  flurried ;  mes- 
sengers are  sent  to  the  various  surgeons,  and  almost  as 
soon  as  the  poor  man  is  fairly  deposited  within  the  re- 
ception-room, the  surgeons  are  ready  to  examine  his  in- 
juries. 

We  will  suppose  it  to  be  an  extreme  case,  where  im- 
mediate operation  affords  the  only  hope  of  saving  life. 
Notice  is  instantly  given,  and  the  sufferer  is  borne  gently 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  135 

to  the  dread  operating  room,  once  the  theatre  of  agony 
almost  too  great  for  the  human  frame  to  endure,  but 
now  shorn  of  half  its  terrors  by  the  blessed  influence  of 
chloroform.  It  is  a  quiet-looking  room  enough,  with 
nothing  in  it  to  alarm  any  one.  All  the  array  of  instru- 
ments needed  are  kept  in  an  adjoining  room,  where  they 
are  marshaled  in  proper  ranks,  and  preserved  in  the  very 
perfection  of  working  order.  Woe  be  to  the  delinquent 
through  whose  neglect  a  screw  refuses  to  turn  rightly,  a 
silken  thread  is  allowed  to  be  tangled  or  an  edge  shows 
the  least  symptoms  of  dullness.  A  human  life  hangs  upon 
every  such  apparent  trifle,  and  each  instrument,  however 
simple  it  may  be,  is  conserved  and  examined  with  a  seri- 
ous minuteness  that  would  seem  absurd  to  those  who 
knew  not  the  responsibility  of  the  examiner. 

In  a  wonderfully  short  time  the  operation  is  over,  the 
wounded  vessel  that  was  draining  the  stream  of  life  is 
secured,  the  sufferer  is  again  placed  on  the  stretcher,  and 
conveyed  to  a  bed  which  has  been  prepared  in  the  mean- 
time. Until  he  is  out  of  danger  he  is  never  left  for  a 
moment,  the  surgeons  relieving  each  other  in  a  regular 
rotation,  and  keeping  their  anxious  watch  through  day 
and  night  by  his  bedside.  If  the  accident  should  happen 
to  occur  near  the  hospital,  barely  half  an  hour  will  inter- 
vene between  the  moment  of  its  occurrence  and  the  time 
when  the  sufferer  is  placed  in  bed. 

If  we  now  leave  this  kind  of  ward  and  enter  one  of 
those  devoted  to  medical  cases,  we  shall  see  very  little 
difference.  There  is  the  same  row  of  beds  with  their 
chequered  curtains,  and  the  suspended  batons  by  which 
the  patients  are  enabled  to  lift  themselves  in  bed,  and 
which  are  technically  called  pullies.  Over  the  head  of 
each  patient  there  is  the  same  looking  white  board,  on 
which  is  written  the  name  of  the  patient,  the  ward,  the 
physician,  the  malady,  and  the  daily  treatment  and  diet, 
so  that  the  whole  case  is  seen  at  a  glance.  The  sister 
in  her  blue  dress,  and  the  nurses  in  sober  brown,  are 
working  in  the  same  quiet  way;  the  convalescent  pa- 
tients are  talking  in  little  groups,  or  reading,  or  watch- 


136  THE  INN  OF  REST 

ing  their  farther  advanced  companions  walking  in  the 
square  below.  The  wards  are  always  in  the  same  state 
of  order,  and  any  one  can  enter  a  ward  at  any  hour  of 
day  or  night  without  giving  notice,  and  find  everything 
going  on  in  the  same  systematic  fashion. 

The  general  life  of  a  patient  is  necessarily  regulated 
with  as  much  care  as  is  exercised  aboard  a  man-of-war. 
After  breakfast  the  sister  reads  a  few  short  prayers,  a 
copy  of  which  is  hung  over  each  bed,  so  that  the  patient 
may  follow  if  he  chooses.  The  medical  men  then  make 
their  rounds,  and  after  them  comes  the  chaplain,  who 
reads  a  selection  from  the  prayer-book  or  sometimes 
gives  a  short  address,  and  then  speaks  a  word  here  and 
there  to  the  patients.  There  are  three  chaplains  attached 
to  the  hospital,  and  as  on  the  average  each  reads  prayers 
six  or  seven  times  daily,  there  are  eighteen  short  ser- 
vices held  in  the  wards  every  day.  One  is  resident ;  and 
they  make  arrangements  among  themselves,  so  that  if 
a  patient  should  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  desire 
to  see  the  chaplain  the  wish  is  immediately  gratified. 
Patients  of  any  religion  or  sect  can  have  their  own  min- 
ister, and  even  members  of  the  Church  of  England  who 
desire  to  see  the  clergyman  to  whom  they  have  been  ac- 
customed, or  to  whom  they  take  a  fancy,  have  only  to 
express  the  wish  and  a  messenger  is  immediately  des- 
patched. There  is  necessarily  the  proviso  that  any  such 
minister  shall  confine  his  attentions  to  the  particular  pa- 
tient who  sent  for  him,  or  otherwise  the  hospital  would 
be  inundated  with  conflicting  missionaries,  and  each  ward 
turned  into  a  polemical  battle-field. 

Dinner-time  is  fixed  at  12:30,  and  about  twenty  min- 
utes before  that  time  a  long  stream  of  nurses  is  seen  con- 
verging towards  some  stone  stairs  leading  to  regions 
below.  Here  the  vast  amount  of  varied  food  is  cooked 
for  the  patients  by  means  equally  simple  and  ingenious. 

On  entering  the  kitchen  we  do  not  find  the  air  par- 
ticularly hot,  and  except  a  moderate  fire,  at  which  noth- 
ing is  being  cooked,  and  a  row  of  dressers  adorned  with 
shining  pipes,  handles,  and  chains,  hardly  a  sign  of  cook- 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  137 

ery  is  visible.  The  dresser,  however,  contains  several 
huge  coppers,  wherein  all  the  beef-tea,  broth,  and  simi- 
lar articles  of  food  are  cooked.  No  fire  is  needed  for 
them,  as  they  are  heated  by  steam  supplied  from  a  boiler 
outside  the  walls.  The  steam  acts  in  two  ways.  To 
warm  the  mixture  and  keep  it  at  the  gently  simmering 
temperature  needful  for  the  production  of  good  broth, 
steam  is  admitted  between  the  double  jackets  of  which 
the  boiler  is  made.  To  make  it  boil,  when  the  temper- 
ature must  be  increased,  steam  is  admitted  from  below, 
which  passes  through  the  liquid,  parting  with  all  its 
heat  in  so  doing,  and  stirring  up  the  contents  of  the  ves- 
sel most  effectually.  Another  large  cauldron  is  heated 
by  means  of  a  gas-stove. 

We  ask  the  cook  where  the  meat  is  roasted,  and  he 
answers  by  opening  the  door  of  a  large  iron-safe,  let 
into  the  wall,  where  between  twenty  and  thirty  joints 
are  seen  sputtering  at  a  wonderful  rate.  Two  of  these 
safes  are  placed  side  by  side,  and  each  can  cook  about 
thirty  large  joints.  This  structure  is  remarkably  simple, 
the  whole  number  of  joints  being  roasted  by  a  single 
row  of  gas  jets  round  the  bottom.  The  gas  has  no  di- 
rect effect  on  the  Imeat,  being  outside  the  gridiron  and 
hooks  on  which  the  joints  are  placed,  but  merely  heats 
the  metal  sides  of  the  roasters,  which*  are  so  formed  as 
to  reflect  all  the  warmth  upon  the  meat.  This  arrange- 
ment is  so  perfect  that  every  joint  is  equally  well  roasted, 
whether  it  be  at  the  top,  the  bottom,  middle,  or  side  of 
the  roaster,  and  the  ventilation  is  so  powerful  that  the 
meat  has  not  the  least  flavor  of  gas,  as  is  too  often  the 
case  when  cooked  by  such  means.  It  is  a  most  econo- 
mical system,  for  the  dripping  overpays  the  cost  of  the 
gas,  being  so  pure  and  free  from  ashes  or  foreign  sub- 
stances that  it  is  sold  by  contract  at  a  high  price.  The 
open  fire  is  mostly  used  for  little  extra  delicacies  which 
any  patient  of  feeble  appetite  may  fancy.  There  are, 
indeed,  no  bounds  to  the  liberality  of  the  hospital  in 
this  respect,  and  if  a  really  sick  person  has  a  particular 
wish  for  any  article  of  diet,  it  is  at  once  ready,  if  the 


138 


THE  INN  OF  REST 


hospital  appliances  are  sufficient  for  that  purpose,  or,  if 
not,  is  straightway  purchased  from  a  restaurant.  In- 
deed, if  a  patient  could  eat  nothing  but  turtles  and  veni- 
son, and  drink  nothing  but  Lafitte  and  Cliquot,  they 
would  be  supplied  without  the  least  hesitation. 

Arranging  and  giving  out  the  rations  is  a  business  of 
sonic  importance,  and  is  thus  managed.  In  the  kitchen 
a  large  blackboard  is  placed,  which  is  divided  into  lines 
and  columns  according  to  the  following  chart: 


Total 

Extra 

Kenton 

Harley 

Pitcairn 

1 

68 
54 
3 

78 

30 
156 

Half  Diet 

Half  Diet 
Chop 

2 

Full  Diet 

6 

23 

Full  Diet 
Chop 

1 

Broth 

Beef  Tea 

Milk 

1 

Rice  Milk 

5 

Arrow- 
root 

2 

Sago 

Pudding 

Eggs 

5 

4 

The  board  being  black,  the  figures  are  written  upon 
it  with  chalk,  and,  after  the  dinner  has  been  served  and 
the  accounts  checked,  are  erased  with  a  wet  cloth.  At 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  139 

the  time  when  the  above  table  was  copied,  Kenton  ward 
was  nearly  empty,  and  Harley  quite  full ;  but  in  a  week 
or  two  Kenton  will  probably  have  every  bed  occupied. 

On  the  day  when  the  writer  happened  to  visit  the 
kitchen,  there  were  five  hundred  and  seventy-three  in- 
mates of  the  hospital,  who  consumed  eight  hundred  and 
twenty  rations  at  dinner,  including  extras,  such  as  pud- 
ding and  arrowroot. 

The  manner  in  which  the  dinner  is  sent  into  the  wards 
is  very  curious.  On  a  long  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen  are  ranged  a  regiment  of  covered  tin  dishes, 
each  stamped  with  the  number  representing  a  ward. 
When  all  is  ready  the  cook  turns  off  the  gas,  opens  the 
door  of  the  roaster,  seizes  a  huge  two-handled  fork, 
plunges  it  into  one  of  the  joints,  looks  at  a  tin  label  fas- 
tened to  the  meat  by  a  skewer,  shouts  out  the  number 
upon  the  label  and  the  name  of  its  proper  ward,  removes 
it,  and  hands  the  joint  to  an  assistant,  who  places  it  in 
the  dish  corresponding  to  the  number.  It  is  then  taken 
by  the  nurse  of  the  ward,  who  carries  it  off  to  her  do- 
mains, where  it  is  carved  by  the  sister,  and  distributed 
by  the  nurses.  The  whole  of  the  cooking  for  six  hun- 
dred patients,  including  puddings  and  various  extras, 
is  achieved  by  one  man,  aided  by  his  wife  and  two  maid 
servants.  Nothing  is  wasted,  and  after  the  patients  have 
eaten  as  much  as  they  can  manage,  the  whole  of  the  re- 
mainder is  distributed  to  the  poor,  so  that  there  is  no 
possibility  of  stale  provisions  being  served  out  to  the 
patients. 

The  arrangements  for  supplying  the  patients  with 
medicine  are  quite  as  elaborately  simple  as  those  for 
supplying  them  with  food.  If  we  cross  the  square,  pass 
into  the  dispensary,  popularly  called  the  "shop,"  because 
nothing  is  sold  there,  and  look  around  us,  we  find  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  remarkable  smells  and  singular 
sights.  Huge  jars  and  unlimited  rows  of  bottles  dis- 
tract the  eye,  while  we  pass  through  another  door  and 
enter  the  laboratory.  Here  the  various  drugs  are  com- 
pounded— the  whole  of  the  mechanical  work  being  done 


140  THE  INN  OF  REST 

by  steam.  In  a  little  side-room  is  a  small  steam  engine, 
which  works  a  mill  for  grinding  bark  and  other  drugs. 
The  mill  is  just  like  that  of  a  powder  manufactory,  con- 
sisting of  a  pair  of  huge  stone  discs,  rolling  on  their  edges 
in  a  circular  basin,  and  driven  round  by  the  engine.  The 
same  machine  also  works  the  sieve,  which  requires  no  aid 
except  being  occasionally  supplied  with  fresh  material. 

Economy  reigns  supreme  here  as  in  other  departments, 
and  even  the  steam  is  not  allowed  to  be  wasted,  but  is 
condensed  into  distilled  water,  which  is  necessary  for 
the  manufacture  of  many  chemical  compounds.  There 
are  also  seen  two  huge  evaporating  pans,  with  move- 
able  covers,  like  copper  domes,  terminating  in  chimney 
pots  of  the  same  material,  and  the  liquid  in  these  pans 
is  heated  by  means  of  steam,  as  in  the  case  of  the  great 
cauldrons  in  the  kitchen.  Lest,  however,  the  engine 
should  be  out  of  order,  there  is  a  fire-place  under  each 
pan,  which  would  heat  the  various  decoctions  until  the 
steam  could  be  again  supplied.  In  the  many  cases  where 
valuable  juices  must  be  expressed  by  main  force,  a  pow- 
erful Bramah's  water-press  stands  always  ready  for  use. 

Here  and  there  on  the  counters  are  seen  great  shape- 
less lumps  of  some  dark  substance,  looking  like  spade- 
fuls of  black  mortar,  and  each  having  a  tin  label  stuck 
on  it.  Each  of  these  lumps  is  a  mass  of  pills  not  yet  made 
up,  but  which  will  soon  be  cut  into  shape  and  size  by  a 
machine.  The  pills  thus  made  are  placed  in  great  store- 
boxes,  whence  they  are  scooped  with  a  shovel,  just  as 
bankers'  clerks  scoop  sovereigns,  and  transferred  to  cer- 
tain little  pigeon-hole  boxes  just  under  the  dispensing 
window.  The  pill-boxes  are  also  kept  in  vast  quantities, 
and  each  box  is  ready  labeled,  this  operation  being  per- 
formed by  the  convalescent  patients — mostly  the  chil- 
dren, who  take  to  the  task  quite  easily,  as  there  is  plenty 
of  snipping  and  gumming  in  it;  the  boxes  being  of 
course  classed  according  to  their  labels.  There  is  also 
a  large  store-room  where  the  drugs  are  kept  before  be- 
ing ground  and  made  up,  and  here,  also,  are  placed  the 
wine,  brandy,  and  other  spirits  required  by  the  patients. 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  141 

Here  is  made  that  useful  substance,  called  diachylon 
plaster  by  the  outer  world,  and  simply  denomi- 
nated "strapping"  in  surgical  parlance.  Like  the  pills,  the 
grinding,  and  the  sifting,  the  strapping  is  made  by  ma- 
chinery. A  strip  of  linen,  about  forty  yards  long  and  ten 
inches  wide,  is  taken  to  the  machine,  and  one  end  inserted 
between  two  rollers,  which  revolve  as  the  linen  is  drawn 
between  them ;  causing  it  to  be  equally  covered  with  the 
substance  that  converts  it  into  plaster,  and  which  is 
seen  bubbling  in  a  trough,  from  which  it  is  conveyed  to 
the  linen.  The  process  of  manufacture  is  quite  an  ab- 
surd sight.  Two  men  seize  the  projecting  end  of  the 
linen,  and  run  away  with  it  through  the  door-way,  and 
through  the  dispensing-room,  until  they  reach  the  win- 
dow, where  they  hand  it  over  to  a  couple  of  assistants 
standing  ready  outside,  who  continue  to  run  away  with 
it  until  the  whole  forty  yards  are  expended.  The  air 
cools  it  almost  immediately,  and  it  is  then  sliced  into 
lengths  with  huge  scissors,  rolled  up,  and  stowed  away. 
As  this  strapping  is  dispensed  very  liberally,  it  is  needful 
to  have  some  protection  against  the  many  impostors  who 
would  obtain  it  from  the  hospital,  sell  it  for  a  few  pence, 
and  buy  gin  with  the  proceeds.  The  name  of  the  hos- 
pital is  therefore  printed  in  full  in  diagonal  lines  across 
the  back  of  the  linen,  and  the  type  is  so  bold  and  the 
lines  so  close  together  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
behave  dishonestly  without  detection.  Similar  precau- 
tions are  taken  with  every  article  of  portable  property 
belonging  to  the  hospital — such  as  plates,  dishes,  tin- 
ware, sheets,  counterpanes,  and  blankets,  all  of  which 
are  marked  so  boldly  that  they  must  be  recognized,  and 
so  ineradicably  that  in  most  cases  to  obliterate  the  mark 
would  be  to  destroy  the  article. 

Before  closing  these  remarks,  it  will  be  as  well  to  men- 
tion a  few  statistics  gathered  from  the  institution. 

It  is  found  that  of  the  whole  number  admitted  into  the 
wards  in  a  single  year,  nearly  eighty  per  cent,  are  dis- 
charged either  cured  or  relieved,  and  that  about  ten  per- 
cent, die  within  the  walls.  Of  these,  however,  about 


142  THE  INN  OF  REST 

one  and  a  Half  per  cent,  are  nearly  dead  when  brought  to 
the  gates,  and  die  before  they  have  been  within  the  walls 
for  one  day.  Of  the  deaths,  the  greater  number  are  at- 
tributed to  the  scourge  of  our  land,  consumption,  which 
insidious  disease  carries  off  thirteen  per  cent,  of  the 
whole  number.  The  next  fatal  malady  is  bronchitis,  which 
kills  about  eight  per  cent. ;  next  conies  burns  and  scalds, 
which  account  for  six  per  cent.;  and  next  in  order  is 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  which  carries  off  five  per  cent. 
So  that  more  than  twenty-five  per  cent,  are  attributable 
to  affections  of  the  lungs.  Scarlatina,  so  much  dreaded, 
only  gives  two  per  cent.;  and  croup,  the  just  fear  of 
anxious  parents,  only  kills  one  per  cent.  Fever  and  apo- 
plexy are  marked  by  the  same  figure  as  scarlatina;  and 
dropsy  and  diseases  of  the  heart  (often  allied)  range  be- 
tween four  and  five  per  cent. 

During  the  last  official  year  no  less  than  105,452  suf- 
ferers applied  for  and  received  relief  from  this  institu- 
tion, of  whom  5,633  were  admitted  as  in-patients,  and 
more  than  35,000  were  surgical  casualties.  There  is 
also  a  provision  for  ensuring  gratuitous  attendance  upon 
poor  women  about  to  become  mothers;  and  during  the 
past  year  849  children  were  ushered  into  the  world  un- 
der its  kindly  auspices.  Six  pensioners  have  been  added 
to  the  list  of  poor  incurables,  and  a  sum  of  £522,  5s.,  lOd. 
has  been  expended  in  giving  clothes  and  pecuniary  re- 
lief to  discharged  patients.  The  former  fund  is  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Priscilla  Coborn  Charity,  and  the  lat- 
ter is  called  the  Samaritan  Fund.  Various  other  patients 
have  been  presented  with  costly  surgical  apparatus  and 
other  appliances.  No  less  than  thirteen  pipes  of  port 
wine  have  been  consumed  by  the  patients  within  the  last 
twelve  months,  and  it  is  found  that,  upon  an  average, 
one  pipe  of  this  wine  is  drunk  in  twenty-eight  days. 
Sherry  and  brandy  are  not  included  in  this  estimate. 
The  whole  of  the  funds  (almost  entirely  derived  from 
landed  estates)  which  are  needed  for  the  administration 
of  such  enormous  expenses,  is  managed  by  a  resident 


INNER  LIFE  OF  A  HOSPITAL  143 

gentleman,  who  gives  his  unpaid  services  to  the  insti- 
tution, and  who  is  the  virtual  head  of  the  hospital. 

Ex  uno  disce  omnes.  The  foregoing  sketch  of  the  Inner 
Life  of  a  Hospital  is  necessarily  given  in  outline,  and 
admits  of  few  details,  the  whole  system  of  medical  and 
surgical  instruction  being  omitted  for  want  of  space, 
and  the  description  confined  to  its  immediate  bearings 
upon  the  patient.  Still,  it  is  hoped  that  the  reader  may 
have  gained  some  knowledge  of  the  intricate  and  costly 
machinery  by  which  these  valuable  institutions  are 
worked,  and  of  their  claims  to  consideration  on  the  part 
of  the  wealthy  and  benevolent. 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL 

Adelaide  C.  G.  Sim 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL. 

|  HE  Sister  in  charge  of  the  large  hospital  just  out- 
side one  of  the  grimiest,  noisest,  busiest,  and  most 
crowded  of  our  manufacturing  towns  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  her  own  special 
quarters,  at  one  end  of  the  long  plain  building, 
looking  after  the  doctor  who  had  just  left  her  at 
the  close  of  a  lengthy  conference  on  hospital  mat- 
ters. It  was  a  very  raw  November  day,  a  damp 
fog  was  settling  down  over  the  flat  waste  of  land 
that  lay  between  the  hospital  and  the  great  town  about 
two  miles  distant;  it  hung  in  glistening  drops  on  the 
black  iron  railings  around  the  Sister's  little  plot  of  gar- 
den, and  weighed  down  the  slender  branches  of  the  few 
stunted  shrubs  that  managed  to  hold  their  own  in  the 
poor  soil  and  smoke-laden  atmosphere.  A  dreary  pros- 
pect, but  yet,  as  the  doctor  disappeared  through  the  big 
gates,  although  the  Sister  gave  an  involuntary  shiver 
which  shook  her  ample  form  and  made  the  white  wings 
of  her  headdress  tremble,  she  turned  back  to  her  little 
sitting-room  with  a  bright  smile  of  contentment  and  tri- 
umph. A  good  woman  was  the  Sister  Superintendent 
and  what  is  perhaps  rarer,  a  clever  one  also.  She  had 
her  own  ideas  as  to  the  administration  and  government 
of  the  large  establishment  over  which  she  presided,  and 
on  occasions  would  defend  those  views  even  against  the 
doctor  with  much  energy.  This  afternoon,  however,  the 
two  authorities  had  agreed  with  remarkable  unanimity 
on  one  matter  very  near  to  the  Sister's  heart,  the  promo- 
tion of  Nurse  Miriam,  and  as  the  Sister  sat  down  at  her 
writing  table  and  turned  to  the  consideration  of  the 
weekly  bills,  she  sfmiled  again  at  the  thought  of  having 
so  easily  carried  a  point  for  which  she  had  been  pre- 
pared to  fight  her  hardest,  for  after  two  years'  residence 


148 

in  the  hospital  the  appointment  to  be  bestowed  on  the 
nurse  was  an  almost  unprecedented  favor. 

It  was  only  two  years  since  a  poor  wasted  woman 
had  been  found  lying  sick  of  typhoid  fever  in  a  miser- 
able lodging  in  the  town  and  brought  to  the  hospital  by 
her  landlady,  who  could  give  no  information  respecting 
her,  beyond  the  fact  that  she  had  paid  a  week's  rent  in 
advance,  had  asked  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and,  poor  soul,  had 
fallen  asleep  on  the  bed  while  it  was  preparing,  to  awake 
delirious  and  in  a  high  fever.  She  lay  for  weeks  be- 
tween life  and  death  in  the  hospital  ward,  and  though 
at  times  she  talked  volubly,  the  nurses  and  sisters  could 
make  nothing  of  her  ravings,  and  only  agreed  that  she 
spoke  like  an  educated  woman,  and  that  the  voice  that 
came  from  her  poor  parched  lips  was  singularly  sweet 
and  low.  She  was  so  ill  and  for  so  long  as  to  create  a 
special  interest  in  her  case  among  the  staff,  and  when  at 
last  she  was  pronounced  out  of  danger,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral feeling  of  relief  that  the  natural  curiosity  she  had 
aroused  would  be  at  last  satisfied,  and  that  she  would 
soon  be  able  to  give  an  account  of  herself. 

But  the  patient  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  do  this ;  she  lay 
perfectly  quiet,  watching  all  that  went  on  around  her 
with  great  hazel-brown  eyes,  which,  now  that  the  fever 
had  left  them,  showed  languidly  beautiful  under  her 
finely  penciled  brows.  She  accepted  all  that  was  done  for 
her  with  the  gracious  courtesy  of  a  queen,  and  asked  no 
questions  as  to  how  she  came  there  or  who  those  around 
her  were,  and  after  a  few  unavailing  attempts  to  arouse 
her  to  talk  about  herself,  the  nurses  left  her  to  be  inter- 
viewed by  the  Sister  Superintendent.  This  dignitary 
finding  her  one  morning  sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the 
effect  of  conversation,  sat  down  by  her  bed,  and  con- 
gratulated her  on  her  improved  appearance. 

"I  dare  say,  my  dear  child,"  she  went  on,  "y°u  would 
like  to  let  your  friends  know  where  you  are.  I'm  afraid 
they  must  have  been  very  anxious  about  you,  but  as  we 
could  find  nothing  to  give  us  a  clue  to  your  name  and 
address,  we  could  not  communicate  with  them.  Now  if 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL  149 

you  will  tell  me  I'll  write  at  once  to  them,  and  they  can 
come  and  see  you."  The  sick  woman  flushed  a  little 
during  the  Sister's  speech,  and  her  thin  fingers  fidgeted 
the  wedding-ring  they  had  noticed  on  her  left  hand,  but 
when  she  answered  it  was  in  a  quiet  level  voice,  "I  thank 
you  very  much,  Sister,  but  there  is  no  one  to  write  to. 
I  am  quite  alone  in  the  world  since  I  lost  my  husband." 
She  caught  her  breath  a  trifle  before  the  last  words,  and 
the  Sister  looked  a  little  keenly  at  her,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  embarrass  her  in  the  least,  and  she  went  on  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "I'm  afraid  I  have  been  ill  here  a  long 
time,  and  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  all  for  your  goodness 
and  care  of  me.  The  last  thing  I  remember  was  being 
so  tired  and  so  miserable,  and  hoping  that  I  might  go 
to  sleep  and  not  awake  again,  and  now  I  am  so  com- 
fortable and  this  is  so  resting  and  peaceful,  I'm  glad  and 
thankful  to  be  alive  still.  You  won't  send  me  away  just 
yet  will  you?"  "Send  you  away!  Why,  my  dear,  you 
won't  be  fit  to  be  moved  for  another  three  weeks,  and 
then  you  will  have  to  be  looked  after  very  carefully. 
.What  is  your  name?" 

"Miriam." 

"And  your  surname?" 

The  patient  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  then  look- 
ing at  her  questioner  almost  defiantly  said,  "Barton, 
Miriam  Barton" — but  next  minute  with  a  smile  which 
would  have  disarmed  a  much  more  touchy  person  than 
the  good  Sister,  she  added,  "Please  don't  ask  me  any 
more,  now.  I'm  so  happy  to  be  here."  And  somehow  all 
attempts  at  solving  the  mystery  of  Miriam's  past  life 
ended  in  a  like  unsatisfactory  manner. 

She  rapidly  became  convalescent,  and  as  soon  as  she 
was  up  began  to  make  herself  useful  to  the  nurses,  and 
to  enliven  and  cheer  the  other  patients.  She  seemed  to 
possess  an  unending  store  of  anecdotes  and  stories,  and 
as  she  grew  stronger  might  be  heard  singing  to  herself 
in  a  sweet  mellow  voice  like  a  thrush  in  springtime ;  but, 
although  many  of  her  stories  were  personal  experiences, 
no  one  gained  any  knowledge  of  her  antecedents  beyond 


150  THE  INN  OF  REST 

the  fact  that  she  had  led  a  rather  wandering  life,  and 
had  been  pretty  well  all  over  England.  The  chaplain 
made  an  attempt  to  gain  her  confidence,  but  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  long  conversation,  could  only  report  that  her 
views  were  those  of  an  excellent  Churchwoman,  and  that 
he  quite  believed  her  when  she  assured  him  earnestly 
that  she  had  no  relations  or  friends  to  whom  she  was 
accountable,  and  both  he  and  the  Sister  Superintendent 
were  only  too  glad  to  support  the  petition  she  made  to 
the  hospital  Committee  to  be  allowed  to  stay  on  and 
qualify  as  a  nurse  when  she  had  quite  recovered  her 
strength,  and,  be  it  added,  her  beauty.  For,  as  her  health 
returned  it  dawned  on  every  one,  from  the  visiting  physi- 
cian to  the  boy  who  cleaned  the  boots,  that  Nurse  Miriam 
was  what  the  former  denominated  "a  very  fine  woman," 
and  the  latter  a  "stunner!"  She  was  rather  above  the 
middle  height,  with  a  figure  that  asserted  its  claim  to 
admiration  even  in  the  straight-cut  hospital  uniform, 
and  she  moved  as  a  poor  German  patient  described  it, 
"Wei  eine  Gottin."  Her  prettily  shaped  head  was  a 
mass  of  golden  brown  curls  that  refused  to  be  entirely 
hidden  away  under  her  white  cap,  and  her  almost  clas- 
sic features  were  redeemed  from  severity  by  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  laughter-loving  mouth.  She  would  have 
been  almost  worth  keeping  as  an  ornament,  but  to  the 
delight  of  the  doctors  and  sisters  she  showed  a  distinct 
genius  for  nursing,  unbounded  energy,  unflagging  pa- 
tience, and  with  the  most  sympathetic  nature  had  nerves 
of  steel. 

She  had  become  a  treasure  in  the  hospital,  and  the 
doctor's  promise  to  appoint  her  head  of  the  accident  ward 
was  a  source  of  intense  gratification  to  the  Superinten- 
dent. 

The  dull  miserable  afternoon  wore  on,  and  presently 
a  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  Sister's  accounts, 
and  at  her  "Come  in,"  Nurse  Miriam  entered  dressed  for 
walking.  "Do  you  want  anything  in  the  town,  Sister; 
I'm  going  in  to  do  some  shopping — I  want  the  exercise — 
I  shall  be  back  by  tea-time?" 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL  151 

Of  course  there  were  a  few  trifles  to  purchase,  and  the 
messages  to  be  left,  and  then,  after  a  recommendation 
not  to  be  out  in  the  fog  too  late,  and  to  be  sure  to  take 
a  'bus  home,  Miriam  started  on  her  walk.  It  was  not  a 
cheerful  road  to  the  town,  leading  as  it  did  past  brick 
fields  and  desert  places  waiting  the  advent  of  the  jerry- 
builder,  nor  did  it  look  even  its  evil  best  on  this  yellow, 
misty  winter's  day.  Nurse  Miriam  shivered  a  little  as 
she  plunged  into  the  fog,  and  drew  her  long  grey  cloak 
more  closely  round  her,  but  starting  at  a  good  swinging 
pace  she  soon  began  to  feel  exhilarated  by  her  own  mo- 
tion which  sent  the  blood  coursing  through  her  veins, 
and  brought  a  vivid  color  into  her  cheeks.  The  road 
was  not  much  frequented,  only  workmen  living  in  the  lit- 
tle settlement  that  had  grown  up  around  the  hospital 
used  it  morning  and  evening,  going  to  and  fro  to  their 
work  in  the  town,  or  a  cart  would  lumber  past  at  long 
intervals,  and  this  afternoon  the  fog  had  settled  down 
so  completely  that  one  could  not  see  a  yard  ahead. 
Nurse  Miriam  walked  along  revolving  in  her  own  mind 
certain  improvements  in  a  system  of  bandaging  now  be- 
ing experimentally  tried  in  the  accident  ward,  when  sud- 
denly the  sound  of  voices  young  and  boyish  pierced 
through  the  dark  air  and  fell  on  her  ears. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  for  the  gov'nor;  it  will  mean  a 
dead  loss  to  him  having  to  change  the  bill  to-morrow, 
but  I  don't  see  what  else  he  can  do.  There's  no  one  in 
the  company  to  play  Rosalind.  Can  you  see  Miss  Kars- 
lake  in  the  part?  'Alas  the  day!  what  shall  I  do  with  my 
doublet  and  hose?'  in  that  shrill  scolding  voice  of  hers?" 

"Her  voice  would  suit  the  part  about  as  well  as  the 
doublet  and  hose  would  suit  her  figure,"  was  the  reply, 
and  the  speakers  joined  in  a  hearty  peal  of  laughter  as 
they  walked  past  without  noticing  the  grey-clad  woman 
who  stood  motionless  near  them,  for  at  their  words  Mir- 
iam had  stopped  dead.  A  miracle  was  happening.  For  her 
the  fog  had  rolled  away,  the  long  straight  road  had  dis- 
appeared, the  sky  was  bright  above,  the  tender  green  of 
the  forest  of  Arden  was  over  her  head,  the  tall  ferns 


152  THE  INN  OF  REST 

reached  to  her  knees,  the  spring  flowers  bloomed  at  her 
feet,  and  rushing  to  her  lips  in  broken  tremulous  accents 
came  the  sweet  womanly  words  that  Shakespeare  has 
put  into  the  mouth  of  his  most  winsome,  best-loved  hero- 
ine. Speech  after  speech  she  recited,  at  first  under  her 
breath  with  little  trembling  gestures,  such  as  a  dreamer 
might  use,  moving  a  few  steps  to  the  right  or  left  as  she 
spoke;  then  her  voice  grew  gradually  clearer,  her  move- 
ments more  defined,  till  at  last,  her  long  cloak  thrown 
back,  her  eyes  all  alight,  her  lips  parted  in  a  laugh,  she 
turned  quickly  with  her  arms  extended  and  met — not 
the  gnarled  oak  trunk  where  Orlando  hung  his  verses, 
but  the  grim  brick  wall  of  a  villa  garden! 

She  leaned  up  against  it  for  a  moment,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, half  giddy  with  the  sudden  consciousness  of  her  re- 
turn to  real  life,  then  she  heaved  a  long  sigh  as  if  bring- 
ing her  very  soul  from  another  world,  and  started  again 
on  her  way  with  feverish  haste,  her  lips  close  pressed 
together,  her  brow  knit. 

Once  in  town,  she  became  her  practical,  energetic  self 
— ordering,  selecting,  bargaining,  executing  all  her  many 
commissions,  until  at  last  everything  being  satisfactorily 
completed,  she  came  out  of  a  shop  in  the  principal  street 
and  paused  for  a  moment  irresolutely.  Facing  her  was 
a  dead  wall  on  which  the  light  of  a  neighboring  gas  lamp 
fell,  covered  with  advertisements.  The  merits  of  the 
latest  improved  bicycle  were  there  set  forth,  the  newest 
baby's  feeding  bottle,  the  most  stylish  three-shilling  hat, 
the  forthcoming  chapel  sale  of  work  was  there  an- 
nounced, and  in  the  very  centre  was  a  huge  orange- 
colored  poster  informing  the  public  that  Mr.  Jebb's  cele- 
brated London  Company  was  engaged  in  the  Theatre 
Royal  for  six  nights  only. 

Nurse  Miriam  gave  one  long  searching  glance  at  this, 
and  then  set  off  as  fast  as  she  could  down  the  street  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  her  way  home.  It  was  a  dirty 
old  part  of  the  town  where  she  found  herself  after  a  few 
minutes'  rapid  walking,  but  she  seemed  to  Know  her  way, 
and  taking  a  turn  to  the  right  down  a  very  pokey,  dis- 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL  153 

mal  alley,  she  stopped  before  a  small  doorway  with  a 
lighted  gas  lamp  above  it.  The  door  was  only  half 
closed,  and  yielded  to  her  push,  and  as  she  entered  the 
narrow  badly-lit  passage  a  man's  voice  came  out  of  the 
semi-darkness  demanding  what  she  wanted. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Jebb  on  business,  and  at  once." 

Her  imperative  manner  seemed  to  impress  the  guar- 
dian of  the  place,  for  without  further  ado  he  called  out, 
"Well  you'll  find  him  on  the  stage,  straight  on  and  mind 
the  step ;  wait  a  bit  though  'e's  a-coming  out,"  and  as  he 
spoke  an  elderly  man  stout  and  clean-shaved  with  a 
rather  crumpled  appearance,  and  a  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  came  quickly  down  the  passage  to  where  the 
nurse  stood. 

"Here,  Moxon,  what  does  this  lady  want?  Oh!  a 
nurse,  eh !  My  dear  madam,  if  you've  come  to  ask  for  a 
benefit  for  the  hospital  or  anything  of  that  kind,  I'm 
exceedingly  sorry,  but — " 

"But  I  haven't  come  to  ask  for  anything,  Mr.  Jebb," 
said  Miriam,  her  voice  trembling,  "I've  come  to  know 
whether  you'd  like  me  to  play  Rosalind  for  you  to-mor- 
row ;  and  oh !  my  dear  old  friend,  surely  you  haven't  quite 
forgotten  me?" 

She  held  out  her  hands  as  she  spoke  to  the  astonished 
manager,  and  the  eyes  she  raised  to  his  were  full  of 
tears.  He  caught  her  wrists  and  drew  her  under  the 
light.  "Great  Scott!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  Miriam  Durand. 
Why,  my  dear  child,  you've  come  to  save  me ;  know  you, 
indeed,  as  if  I  shouldn't  know  you  anywhere.  Where  on 
earth  have  you  come  from,  and  what  are  you  doing  in 
this  get  up?  Here,  you  there,  what's-your-name,  give  me 
back  those  notices  for  the  press,  we'll  play  'As  You  Like 
It'  to-morrow,  and  if  we  don't  knock  'em  my  name's  not 
Walter  Jebb.  I'll  have  a  poster  out  in  the  morning  that 
will  make  them  sit  up,  I  know.  There,  there,  my  dear, 
why  what's  the  matter?"  for  Miriam  had  hidden  her  face 
on  her  old  friend's  shoulder,  and  was  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"Now  don't  cry,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  cry ;  here  come 


154  THE  INN  OF   REST 

round  with  me  to  the  Missus,  and  have  a  bit  of  something 
to  eat  and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  you'll  be  all  right.  We've 
no  show  to-night,  and  our  diggings  are  close  by,  so  you'll 
spend  the  evening  with  us.  Why,  my  dear,  you've  come 
like  an  angel  at  the  very  nick  of  time ;  there's  nothing  to 
cry  about."  And,  talking  all  the  time,  the  good-natured 
old  fellow  led  Eis  companion  through  one  or  two  little 
winding  streets  to  his  lodgings. 

Mrs.  Jebb's  astonishment  was  as  great  as  her  hus- 
band's, and  even  more  voluble,  and  having  first  enveloped 
Miriam  in  a  vast  embrace  and  then  wept  freely  over 
her,  she  was  at  last  persuaded  by  the  manager  to  sit 
down  to  her  meat,  tea,  and  explanations. 

"To  begin  at  the  beginning,"  asked  she,  "where's  your 
husband,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  these  last  three 
years,  and  why  are  you  dressed  as  a  nurse?"  "And  can 
you  rehearse  at  ten  to-morrow?"  interrupted  her  hus- 
band. 

"I'll  rehearse  whenever  you  please,  Mr.  Jebb,  and  I 
only  hope  I  have  not  forgotten  everything  I  ever  knew, 
but  I  haven't  played  since  I  left  you,  and  I  didn't  know 
I  should  ever  play  again.  I  thought  that  part  of  my  life 
was  all  done  with  and  put  away,  but  to-day  I  heard  some 
one  say  a  line  of  Rosalind's,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  raised 
from  the  dead.  I  couldn't  stay  another  moment,  and  when 
I  found  it  was  your  company  here  I  came  straight  to  the 
theatre,  and  please  take  me  and  let  me  go  back  to  the 
dear  old  times,"  and  as  she  finished  Miriam  left  her  seat 
and  came  up  to  Mrs.  Jebb  and  put  both  arms  round  her 
neck. 

"Take  you  back,  my  dear,  why  of  course  he  will,  and 
glad  enough  to  have  you,"  said  the  old  lady,  "we've 
never  got  used  to  being  without  you;  but,  Miriam,  my 
dear,  when  you  left  us  you  were  to  be  married.  Didn't 
that  fellow  keep  his  word?" 

Miriam  pulled  off  her  left  glove  and  showed  her  ring. 
"He  was  a  scoundrel,  Mrs.  Jebb,  but  not  so  bad  as  that ; 
but  when  after  a  year's  misery  he  deserted  me,  I  was 
ashamed  to  let  you  or  any  of  my  old  friends  know.  I 


NURSE  MIRIAM'S  CALL  155 

somehow  found  my  way  here,  fell  ill,  and  was  taken  to 
the  hospital — " 

"Where  they  made  a  nurse  of  you?" 

"And  where  I  ought  to  be  at  this  very  moment !"  cried 
Miriam.  "To  think  that  I  could  have  forgotten  my  work ! 
What  will  the  Sister  say?"  And  she  hurried  off  regard- 
less of  her  friends'  remonstrances.  What  the  Sister  did 
say  when  she  heard  Miriam's  story  proved  her,  as  I  have 
said,  a  clever  as  well  as  a  good  woman.  "My  dear,  good 
actresses  are  much  rarer  than  good  nurses;  God  bless 
you,  and  when  you  come  to  the  town  next  time  give  us 
a  benefit  for  the  hospital."  Which  Nurse  Miriam  never 
fails  to  do. 


HALF-AN-HOUR'S  CHAT  WITH 
THE  HOSPITAL  NURSE 

The  Rev.  Algernon  C.  E.  Thorold,  M.A. 


HALF-AN-HOUR'S    CHAT   WITH    A    HOSPITAL 

NURSE. 

O  THE  gentle  art  of  nursing  there  is  no  royal 
road;  those  who  to-day  are  fitted  for  the  charge 
of  sick-rooms  and  hospital  wards  acquired  their 
skill  alone  through  the  long  vigil  of  night-ser- 
vice and  the  hours  of  daily  routine. 

Among  all  the  handmaidens  of  human  kindness  none 
are  called  upon  to  qualify  themselves  more  strictly  than 
the  brave  women  who  from  time  to  time  enroll  themselves 
in  the  noble  army  of  nurses,  and  who,  at  the  instant  and 
often  sad  summons  of  the  telegraphic  message,  set  out, 
not  thinking  of  themselves,  in  response  to  the  distant 
voice  of  weeping:  "Come  over  and  help  us." 

Perhaps  few  more  genuine  surprises  meet  any  novice 
than  those  which  await  the  entry  of  the  hospital  proba- 
tioner upon  her  duties ;  and  the  real  nature  of  the  work, 
as  a  rule,  comes  so  forcibly  that  even  if  the  "new  pro." 
does  not  seek  a  very  early  interview  with  the  Sister  to 
ask  that  her  name  be  withdrawn,  the  first  three  months 
is  in  general  a  time  of  many  tears  out  of  hours. 

"Imagination  and  reality  are  then  so  different?"  I  sug- 
gested to  my  friend,  a  hospital  nurse. 

"Yes.  Many  of  those  who  come  in  think  they  are 
only  wanted  to  sit  by  bedsides  and  attend  to  the  small 
needs  of  the  patient ;  but  when  they  find  that  all  the  hard 
work  and  running  about  is  their  duty  also,  and  that  they 
have  to  learn  and  to  obey,  they  think  they  had  better  not 
stay." 

"Is  not  the  first  real  hospital-morning  very  trying?" 

"Yes,  the  ordeal  is  severe,  especially  if  the  round  is  in 
the  surgical  ward.  The  dressing  of  wounds,  the  bandag- 
ing, and  so  forth  bring  hitherto  unknown  and  unex- 
pected feelings.  The  doctor  and  the  staff-nurse  know 


160  THE  INN  OF  REST 

well,  of  course,  the  reality  of  the  probationers'  suffering, 
and  often  make  excuses  for  their  temporary  absence 
from  a  bedside ;  but  as  a  rule  when  the  rounds  have  been 
made  a  few  times  confidence  and  self-control  are  soon 
gained." 

"There  are  grades  among  the  probationers,  no  doubt?" 

"Yes.  After  six  months  a  probationer  becomes  quali- 
fied for  night-duty,  when  the  responsibility  of  her  po- 
sition is  of  course  increased — the  Sister  and  staff-nurse 
not  being  at  hand;  but  by  this  time  she  will  have  ac- 
quired some  of  the  most  important  qualifications  for  her 
post — self-reliance  and  promptitude  of  action." 

"And  how  long  is  the  entire  course?" 

"Two  years,  during  which  many  divisions  are  passed 
through — medical  and  surgical  in  both  men's  and  wo- 
men's wards,  the  Eye  Hospital,  the  Children's,  the  In- 
fectious, and  the  Convalescent." 

"The  discipline  is  very  strict,  no  doubt,  in  hospital 
life?" 

"Yes,  almost  martial!  Method,  order,  and  neatness 
are  primary  virtues.  Nor  are  delinquences  when  discov- 
ered left  to  be  spoken  about  till  next  day;  the  penalty 
follows  immediately  upon  the  fault.  Our  lodgings  in 
connection  with  the  hospital  were  seven  minutes'  walk 
distant,  yet  at  times  the  telephoned  message  would  come, 
'Send  back  probationer  So-and-so,'  who  on  arrival 
would  be  requested,  with  becoming  gravity  or  displeas- 
ure, to  'put  that  bottle  in  its  proper  place  in  the  cup- 
board,' and  told  that  then  she  could  go  home  again !" 

"Hospital  life  is  never  dull  at  all  events,"  I  said. 

"No  indeed.  We  have  experiences  of  all  sorts — some 
humorous,  some  tragic.  Convalescence  often  leads  to 
complications,  and  turns  a  quiet  patient  into  an  intract- 
able one.  When  the  turn  comes  a  good  appetite  soon 
follows,  and  the  niggardly  allowance  ordered  by  the  doc- 
tor is  badly  received.  Of  course  the  nurse  comes  in 
for  all  this,  and  she  has  to  promise  to  persuade  the  doc- 
tor to  allow  more.  'Can  No.  12  have  something  solid?' 
the  nurse  asks  one  morning.  'He  says  he  is  starving.' 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  HOSPITAL  NURSE  161 

'Well,  yes,'  says  the  doctor ;  'let  him  have  some  bread  and 
butter/  The  patient  is  radiant  at  the  thought,  and  the 
next  meal  is  awaited  in  anxiety.  'Ah,  nurse !'  he  says  as 
he  sees  a  plate  arriving,  'is  that  the  bread  and  butter?' 
'Yes,'  says  the  nurse;  'here  it  is.'  'Hullo!'  exclaims  the 
patient  as  he  sees  a  very  thin  slice  put  before  him,  'is  that 
the  bread  and  butter?  Well  look  here,  nurse;  if  I  can't 
have  more  than  that  I'll  have  none,'  and,  in  a  moment 
whiz  goes  the  plate  across  the  ward,  bread  and  butter 
and  all!  The  nurse  only  picks  it  up  quietly,  and  says, 
'Very  well  perhaps  you  will  have  it  presently/  and  after 
a  little  back  she  comes  as  smiling  as  ever,  and  persuades 
her  charge  to  make  a  beginning  with  it.  Or  perhaps 
the  doctor  orders  fish  instead  of  the  everlasting  'milk 
diet/  'Fish?  Ah,  that  will  be  a  change!'  sighs  the  pa- 
tient. This  is  before  dinner.  Then  comes  dinner-time, 
and  with  it  the  punctual  nurse.  'What  is  this?'  queru- 
lously asks  the  patient  as  he  sees  a  suspicious-looking 
basin  in  the  nurse's  hands.  'Soup/  'Soup?  But  the 
doctor  said  I  was  to  have  fish/  'Ah !  so  he  did ;  but  that's 
for  to-morrow.  It's  soup  to-day;  will  you  have  some?' 
'Now  look  here,  nurse/  says  No.  12,  'I  don't  mind  a  bit 
of  a  lark  sometimes;  but  when  the  doctor  says  I'm  to 
have  fish  I'm  not  one  to  be  put  off  with  soup.  Shan't 
have  the  soup — there/  'Oh,  come/  nurse  says,  'the  fish  is 
for  to-morrow,  not  to-day;  doctor's  orders  are  always 
like  that/  'No.  I  was  to  have  fish;  shan't  have  soup. 
If  I  can't  have  fish  I  won't  have  anything/  'Very  well/ 
nurse  says  quietly,  'you  know  best ;  I'll  bring  it  again  at 
tea-time/  Tea-time  comes.  'Well,  here's  some  soup. 
Will  you  try  it?  You  must  be  hungry/  'No.  Take  it 
away ;  if  I  can't  have  fish  I  won't  have  soup/  'Very  well. 
Perhaps  it  won't  matter,  as  your  case  is  not  a  very  bad 
one/  and  the  soup  disappears  again.  The  same  occurs 
at  breakfast-time ;  and  at  last  comes  the  doctor.  'Doctor/ 
says  the  patient,  'didn't  you  say  I  was  to  have  fish  for 
dinner  yesterday?'  The  doctor  exchanges  glances  with 
the  nurse,  who  says,  'No.  12  has  not  had  anything  since 
yesterday.  He  would  not  take  his  soup/  'Oh-h!'  says 


162  THE  INN  OF  REST 

the  doctor.  Then  No.  12  breaks  in  again :  'Didn't  you  say, 
doctor,  I  was  to  have  fish?'  'Yes;  I  ordered  you  fish 
for  to-day;  but  as  you  have  not  had  any  nourishment 
since  yesterday,  fish  will  not  do  for  you  to-day.  You 
must  go  back  to  milk-diet  again.'  'What!  Soup? 
Never!'  'Very  well;  if  you  don't  like  what  we  are  do- 
ing you  need  not  stay.  There  are  several  waiting  for 
your  bed,'  and  with  the  parting  'Soup'  to  the  nurse,  he 
walks  off.  Then  there  is  a  general  laugh  round  at  the 
victim;  everybody  has  kept  the  little  secret  well,  antici- 
pating the  joke  of  middle-diet  punishment." 

"Visitors'  days  must  be  somewhat  trying?"  I  said. 

"Yes.  Two  days  a  week  are  generally  set  apart  for 
visitors,  and  we  nurses  resign  ourselves  to  the  case  as 
placidly  as  we  can ;  and  we  need  patience.  A  rigid  rule 
says  that  no  one  under  treatment  shall  receive  things 
to  eat  without  the  consent  of  the  nurse  in  the  ward; 
this  leads  to  endless  inquiries.  After  a  few  minutes  of 
arrivals  a  friend  comes  to  the  nurse.  'Well  ?'  'Oh,  please, 
nurse,  may  I  give  my  girl  a  few  grapes?'  'Yes.'  A 
minute  or  two  after  the  same  friend  comes  again.  'Oh, 
nurse,  I  have  given  her  two  grapes;  may  she  have  any 
more?'  Then  another  visitor  arrives.  'Please,  nurse, 
may  my  John  have  an  orange?'  'Yes.'  'Thank  you, 
nurse.'  After  a  few  minutes:  'Oh,  nurse,  I  have  given 
my  John  half  an  orange;  may  he  have  the  other  half?' 
Then  a  third  comes:  'I  say,  nurse,  Mrs.  Jones  is  sitting 
on  No.  4's  bed,  and  a-crying  ever  so  bad.  She's  worry- 
ing him  awful';  and  nurse  has  promptly  to  remove  Mrs. 
Jones,  who  retires,  to  recover  and  return. 

"Visiting  days  are  anxious  times  very  often  as  well; 
terrible  mischief  results  sometimes  from  the  mistaken 
kindness  of  friends.  From  behind  the  screens  the  nurses 
at  times  hear  such  sentiments  as:  'Now,  never  mind 
her.  They  want  to  keep  you  in ;  but  if  you  have  a  real 
hankering  after  a  thing,  it  won't  hurt  you — my  father 
always  said  so.'  Of  course  strict  orders  are  given  to  the 
visitors:  'Now,  Mrs.  Jones,  you  are  not  to  give  your 
husband  anything  to  eat;  you  understand,  don't  you?' 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  HOSPITAL  NURSE  163 

'Oh  yes,  nurse;  of  course  I  do.  i  shouldn't  be  so  soft 
when  it's  against  the  rules.'  But  next  morning,  when  the 
doctor  comes,  perhaps  the  patient's  temperature  is  much 
higher  than  it  should  be.  'What's  this,  nurse?  He  has 
had  something  to  eat?'  'No;  nothing  that  I  know  of.' 
'Well,  he  has.  What  have  you  had,  No.  5?  What  did 
your  wife  bring  you  yesterday?'  'Nothing,  sir.'  'Ah, 
well.'  After  a  little  the  nurse  is  tidying,  and  finds  in  No. 
5's  locker  the  remains  of  a  coil  of  black-pudding! 

"Typhoid  patients  need  great  watching.  Food,  other 
than  ordered,  is  sometimes  sudden  death.  I  remember 
the  case  of  a  little  boy  under  treatment  for  typhoid  who 
was  visited  by  his  mother.  'Now,  Mrs.  Smith,'  said 
nurse,  'remember,  please,  you  must  not  give  your  little 
boy  anything  at  all  to  eat.  Will  you  promise  me?'  'Yes. 
Oh,  of  course  not.'  Towards  evening  the  nurse  in  charge 
noticed  a  great  change  in  the  child's  appearance,  and  at 
once  telephoned  to  the  doctor.  The  same  old  question 
came:  'What  has  he  had  to  eat?'  'Nothing  but  or- 
ders.' 'Well,  he  has.  You  can  see  that  for  yourself.' 
But  no  one  knew.  'Well,  he  is  dying.  I  can't  do  any- 
thing. Perhaps  the  mother  may  get  in  time  if  she  comes 
at  once.'  When  the  mother  came  nurse  said:  'You 
promised  me  not  to  give  your  child  anything  to  eat, 
didn't  you?'  'Yes ;  but  I  only  gave  him  a  little  bread  and 
butter.'  'Ah,  well;  you  have  killed  your  little  boy,  Mrs. 
Smith.  Look,  he  is  dying  now.' 

"One  woman  persuaded  her  husband — a  typhoid  sub- 
ject— to  eat  the  forbidden  food,  and  she  was  sent  for, 
as  his  condition  was  alarming.  'Now,  Mrs.  Hope,  what 
did  you  give  him  when  you  came  this  afternoon?'  'Noth- 
ing; oh  dear,  no!'  'Well,  look  here.  We  think  your 
husband  has  had  something  to  eat.  If  you  did  not  give 
him  anything  we  can't  do  much  for  him,  and  he  will 
die — do  you  understand?  But  if  you  can  remember  what 
you  gave  him  perhaps  we  can  help  him.  Now,  what  did 
you  give  him?'  'Oh  dear — oh  dear!  Well,  some  pork 
pie!'  Another  day  a  little  girl  was  to  be  operated  on. 
'We  are  going  to  operate  on  your  little  girl  to-day,  Mrs. 


164  THE  INN  OF  REST 

Green.  She  mustn't  have  anything  to  eat/  'No,  nurse.' 
During  the  operation  a  strange  change  came  over  the 
child,  and  breathing  stopped.  'Hullo!  she's  choking. 
She  has  had  something  to  eat.'  'Oh,  no/  the  nurse  said. 
'Well,  stop  the  operation.  We  must  open  her  throat.' 
The  result  was  a  large  piece  of  apple. 

"Other  visitors  come  and  go,  ex  officio,  without  notice. 
They  come  into  the  wards  as  they  like — clergymen  and 
ministers  of  all  denominations.  They  are,  of  course,  well 
known  for  their  sympathy;  but  at  times  they  get  taken 
in  very  much.  'Oh,  yes ;  he  believed  it  all,'  said  one  pa- 
tient to  another.  'Oh,  did  he?'  said  nurse  on  the  other 
side  of  the  screen,  'well,  I  don't  think  you'll  get  that 
suit  of  clothes  anyway.'  Then  there's  a  laugh,  and  'I 
didn't  think  you  heard,  nurse.'  'Ah !  but  I  did.'  Begging 
characters  are  soon  known  in  the  hospitals,  and  hints 
are  given  to  benevolent  callers." 

"I  suppose  it  is  important  to  keep  the  patients  cheer- 
ful?" 

"Yes,  though  in  the  surgical  ward,  where  the  patients 
are  not  bodily  ill,  it  is  sometimes  almost  necessary  to 
restrain  them.  The  patients  do  not  lose  interest  in  out- 
side matters  either,  and  sometimes  things  get  serious. 
We  were  called  once  by  loud  cries  of  'Nurse'  to  two 
angry  convalescents  talking  politics  in  the  balcony,  and 
the  excitement  between  them  was  so  great  that  in  a  few 
minutes  more  one  or  both  would  probably  have  been 
lying  some  distance  below  on  the  ground.  Next  day 
they  both  promptly  received  their  discharge.  The  win- 
ning candidate  came  through  the  wards  soon  after,  talk- 
ing to  the  men  here  and  there.  One  old  man  wouldn't 
listen.  'Don't ;  stop  talking  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  hear 
you.  Go  on  now.'  A  little  later  he  woke  up  to  find  his  bed 
covered  with  blue  bows  and  ribbons.  Presently  he  called 
nurse.  'Well?'  'Look  here.  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  with 
these  things  tied  to  my  bed.  I'm  a  Radical.'  'Oh,  it's 
all  right ;  its  only  their  joke.'  'I  don't  care.  I'm  a  Radi- 
cal. I'll  have  'em  off  if  I  get  out.'  'Oh,  go  to  sleep,  and 
forget  them.'  After  a  few  minutes  the  nurse's  attention 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  HOSPITAL  NURSE  165 

was  called  to  him  again  by  strange  sounds ;  and  there  he 
was,  splints  and  all,  getting  out  of  bed.  The  bows  were 
soon  off  all  through  the  ward ;  the  nurse  had  seen  enough 
of  politics." 

"Real  difficulties  take  place  sometimes  no  doubt?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Those  who  have  laid  violent  hands  upon 
themselves  often  give  trouble;  at  times  they  are  quite 
dangerous  in  an  after-frenzy.  One  powerful  man  called 
the  nurse,  and  then,  suddenly  springing  out  of  bed, 
dashed  her  to  the  floor.  Fortunately  one  of  the  other 
patients  was  able  to  help  for  the  moment  till  he  was  se- 
cured. In  some  hospitals  the  surgeon  will  not  sign  the 
admission  form  in  these  cases  when  application  is  made 
by  the  friends,  unless  a  policeman  is  sent  in  as  a  special 
attendant.  This  is  absolutely  necessary  where  there  are 
no  men  attendants  attached  to  the  hospital.  The  consta- 
ble's ideas  of  his  duties  are  sometimes  almost  comic.  Of 
course,  from  long  practise,  a  nurse  can  watch  any  pa- 
tient without  distressing  him;  but  a  policeman's  ways 
are  quite  different.  'Won't  you  sit  here,  constable?'  the 
nurse  says;  gently  hinting,  'he'll  go  to  sleep  I  expect, 
and  you  will  be  more  comfortable.'  'No,  thank  you  miss, 
I'll  keep  handy.'  All  the  time  the  policeman  is  sitting 
close  by  the  bedside  and  staring  at  his  charge.  Perhaps 
the  nurse  makes  another  attempt:  'Do  you  know,  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  better  not  to  touch  him?'  Probably  the 
constable  has  actually  his  hand  on  the  man's  arm !  'Well, 
miss,  there's  no  knowing  what  he'll  do.  I  think  I'll  be 
near  him.'  It  is  found  advisable  at  times  to  get  the  con- 
stable to  take  a  little  walk  for  a  change.  'Nurse,'  says  the 
miserable  patient,  'I  promise  not  to  move  if  you  will 
only  get  that  man  away.  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.' 
One  patient,  suddenly  frantic,  made  a  rush  for  the  win- 
dow, leaving  half  his  garments  in  the  brave  nurse's  hands 
as  she  tried  to  stop  his  flight  through  the  air." 

"Are  the  patients,  as  a  rule,  grateful  for  all  you  do  for 
them?" 

"Well,  sometimes  they  are  too  grateful,  and  their  feel- 


166  THE   INN   OF   REST 

ings  run  away  with  them,  with  inconvenient  hints  and 
interesting  offers." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"Oh,  we  stony-hearted  nurses  have  only  one  rule.  The 
grateful  patient  is  removed  into  an  inner  chamber  where 
another  hand  does  duty,  but  the  patient  and  his  old 
nurse  meet  no  more.  But,  then,  sometimes  they  are 
hardly  grateful  enough.  When  they  leave,  the  secretary 
asks  them,  among  other  questions,  'Have  you  any  com- 
plaint to  make?'  This  gives  an  opportunity  sometimes 
for  grumbling.  One  old  woman  answered,  'Well,  I  don't 
think  the  doctors  did  all  they  ought  to  have  done  for 
me.'  'Oh,'  said  the  secretary,  'that's  your  complaint,  is 
it?  Well,  come  with  me;  there's  a  Board  meeting  on 
now.  Oh  yes,  you  must  come,  please' ;  and  almost  before 
she  knew  it  she  was  standing  in  the  boardroom,  before 
all  the  doctors.  'No.  10  has  a  complaint  to  make.'  'Oh 
yes.  Well,  what  is  it?'  But  her  courage  had  vanished. 
'Oh  dear,  no ;  thank  you.  I  don't  wish  to  make  any  com- 
plaint at  all.  I  think  this  a  very  wonderful  institooshun. 
Let  me  go,  please.'  'Good-morning.'  " 

Sunday  comes  week  by  week  in  the  hospital  ward  as 
everywhere  else,  and  with  it  the  chaplain's  ministrations. 
Everybody  knows  the  soporific  influences  about  on  any 
Sunday  afternoon;  but  in  the  hospital  I  found  that  the 
spirit  of  slumber  at  times  is  very  assertive  indeed.  I  was 
not  surprised,  therefore,  to  hear  that  even  patients  suf- 
fering all  things  draw  the  line  at  the  sermon,  and  that 
over-tired  nurses  accept  those  minutes  as  an  offering  to 
their  weariness,  and  are  not  always  ready  when  the  sig- 
nal for  the  close  comes. 

"Well,"  nurse  said,  not  wishing,  I  could  see,  to  hurt 
my  feelings,  "I  think  we  all  used  to  go  to  sleep  on  Sun- 
day afternoons,  but  then  Mr.  Blank  was  very  Low 
Church." 


THE  HOSPITAL  MISTLETOE 

Joseph  Ration 


THE  HOSPITAL  MISTLETOE. 

IHAT  is  that  faded  branch?"  you  ask.    A  sprig 
I  of  mistletoe.    It  is  the  token  of  our  love. 

"How  sentimental !"  you  exclaim.  No ;  it  is 
not  culled  from  the  bough  under  which  I  kissed 
her.  Ours  was  not  a  match  of  the  common  kind ;  it  was 
not  inaugurated  with  blindman's-buff  and  kiss  in  the 
ring.  "The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall?"  No,  my 
friend ;  you  are  quite  wrong.  There  were  no  merry  guests 
going  hither  and  thither  under  that  treasured  sprig  of 
the  mysterious  parasite.  Tell  you  the  story?  I  will.  It 
happened  in  this  wise. 

I  was  the  house-surgeon  of  the  Severnshire  Hospital. 
One  autumn  day  a  patient  was  brought  into  the  accident 
ward.  He  was  a  gentleman.  No  one  in  the  town  knew 
him.  He  was  traveling  through  the  county.  In  the  high 
street  of  the  city  he  had  been  thrown  from  his  horse. 
When  he  was  picked  up,  he  said,  "Take  me  to  the  hos- 
pital; I  am  a  gentleman,  and  will  pay  for  attention;  but 
I  prefer  the  hospital."  So  they  brought  him  to  us.  He 
was  very  seriously  hurt  internally.  George  Gregory 
Newbold  was  his  name. 

"I  don't  live  anywhere  in  particular,"  he  said,  a  week 
after  he  was  brought  in.  "I  am  a  traveler ;  I  have  been 
in  nearly  every  nation  of* the  world.  I  can  refer  you  to 
the  Bank  of  England.  I  have  property  in  Hertfordshire. 
I  am  very  comfortable  here,  and  grateful  for  the  kind- 
ness you  have  shown  me." 

He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  tender,  sympathetic 
gray  eye,  and  a  soft  musical  voice.  There  was  some- 
thing about  him  that  excited  interest  at  once.  It  was 
an  honest,  open,  candid  face,  with  lines  of  care  and 
trouble  about  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  you  are  right,  doctor,"  he  said  to  me  one  Novem- 


170  THE  INN  OF  REST 

ber  day,  when  he  appeared  to  have  rallied  considerably. 
"I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  not  the  sort  of  trouble 
which  usually  knocks  a  man  up — not  money  anxiety, 
nothing  of  the  world's  worry,  in  truth.  Yet  I  have  suf- 
fered tortures  almost  beyond  endurance." 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you,  Mr.  Newbold,  beyond 
the  poor  professional  services  which  it  has  been  your 
misfortune  to  require  here?" 

"No,  thank  you,  I  think  not.  I  often  think  I  shall 
never  recover.  If  I  could  see  my  sister  again,  I  could 
die  happy ;  that  is,  as  happy  as  man  can  die,  when  death 
separates  him  from  the  only  being  whom  he  loves,  and 
whose  protective  hand  she  may  need.  I  will  tell  you  my 
story,  doctor.  You  are  a  good  man;  I  know  that  by 
your  face,  and  by  your  great  kindness  to  me,  a  stranger." 

"I  trust  I  should  be  none  the  less  attentive  to  any  pa- 
tient," I  said;  "although  I  confess  that  you  have  inter- 
ested me  much." 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Newbold ;  "heaven  will 
reward  you.  When  I  was  an  infant,  my  father  died,  and 
left  myself  and  sister  to  the  care  of  our  mother.  It  is 
only  doing  the  memory  of  my  mother  ordinary  justice 
to  say  that  she  was  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful.  She 
died  ten  years  ago.  For  five  years  we  lived  in  the  old 
house,  my  sister  and  myself.  We  had  no  cares,  no 
troubles;  life  with  us  was  a  continual  summer;  to  make 
each  other  happy  was  our  only  anxiety.  It  had  occurred 
to  me  more  than  once — many  times,  indeed — that  Lucy 
might  marry  and  leave  me.  I  should  have  regretted  this 
for  myself,  but  not  if  it  secured  and  perpetuated  Lucy's 
happiness.  One  day — it  only  shows  how  blind  we  men 
are — Lucy  told  me  she  was  in  love." 

"You  are  faint,  Mr.  Newbold,"  I  said ;  "rest  awhile." 

"No,  no ;  I  am  stronger  than  you  think,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing and  waving  me  to  be  silent.  "It  was  a  young  fellow 
who  had  often  been  to  the  house.  I  ought  to  have 
known.  When  Lucy  told  me,  I  could  see  how  indis- 
creet I  had  been.  He  had  neither  friends  nor  position. 
I  did  not  forbid  the  match,  but  I  discountenanced  it,  ex- 


THE    HOSPITAL   MISTLETOE  171 

postulated  with  Lucy,  and  privately  expressed  myself  in 
severe  terms  to  her  lover.  If  it  were  not  that  he  believed 
Lucy  would  deeply  feel  his  leaving  her,  he  said  he  would 
go  away,  since  I  questioned  his  honor  and  his  love.  My 
selfishness  was  awakened;  I  urged  him  to  go,  implored 
him,  gave  him  money;  and  he  left  Lucy  to  her  brother 
in  the  old  house  that  we  had  known  since  infancy.  When 
Lucy  discovered  the  cause  of  her  lover's  desertion,  she 
upbraided  me,  calling  me  cruel  and  selfish,  and  a  month 
afterwards  she  was  missing.  I  have  never  seen  her 
since." 

Here  my  poor  patient  fell  back  upon  his  pillow.  I 
gave  him  a  stimulant;  and  by  and  by,  when  he  looked  up 
with  his  gray  eyes  expressing  an  apology  for  his  weak- 
ness, I  confess  to  sensations  of  sympathy  which  I  had 
never  felt  before. 

"I  thought  I  was  stronger,"  he  said;  "pray  forgive  me. 
Let  me  finish  my  story;  it  will  do  me  good  to  tell  you 
my  troubles.  I  would  give  the  world  to  see  her  once 
more,  for  the  sake  of  my  poor  dear  mother,  who  loved 
her  so  much.  I  found  traces  of  her.  She  had  had  a 
letter  from  her  lover,  bidding  her  good-bye  for  ever.  It 
was  believed  that  he  had  enlisted  for  a  soldier.  A  de- 
tective officer  whom  I  employed  fancied  he  traced  them 
to  India.  His  name  was  not  to  be  found  on  the  lists  of 
any  regiment  at  home  or  abroad. 

"This  is  the  story  of  my  life;  this  is. the  story  of  my 
wanderings.  I  am  in  search  of  my  sister,  in  search  of 
them  both — Lucy  and  her  husband.  I  have  forgiven 
them  long  ago.  What  right  had  I  to  stand  between  her 
and  the  man  she  loved  ?  Heaven  forgive  me !" 

The  season  of  Christmas  came,  with  its  kindly 
thoughts,  its  Christian-like  feelings,  its  genial  associa- 
tions. We  always  decorated  the  hospital  for  Christ- 
mas-Eve. The  patients  all  seemed  to  get  better  in  pres- 
ence of  the  little  excitement  of  the  time.  Every  ward 
had  its  bit  of  holly  and  mistletoe.  The  nurses  rivaled 
each  other  in  the  making  of  festal  wreaths.  Friends  of 
the  patients  brought  in  contributions  from  the  country; 


172  THE  INN  OF  REST 

winter  evergreens  from  their  little  gardens,  holly  from 
rural  hedge-rows,  and  luxuries  of  mince-pie  and  plum- 
pudding  which  it  was  hard  to  interdict.  There  were 
some  poor  creatures  whom  nothing  could  injure;  these 
had  their  beef  and  pudding,  their  pies  and  wine.  Poor 
Mr.  Newbold,  he  was  among  these  hopeless  cases.  But 
no  friend  brought  gifts  to  lay  beside  his  bed.  He  had 
thanked  me,  however,  for  a  handful  of  mistletoe  and 
holly,  which  I  hung  up  in  his  ward  with  my  own  hands, 
wishing  at  the  same  time  all  the  best  wishes  of  the  sea- 
son. 

"I  don't  make  a  complaint,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said; 
"but  I  have  a  small  request  to  prefer.  I  am  very  trouble- 
some, I  am  sure,  very;  and  it  is  hard  for  my  nurse  not 
to  have  a  change  to  some  other  ward.  Will  you  find  me 
another  nurse — a  woman  with  a  softer  voice,  dear  friend 
— a  softer  voice?" 

He  was  very  ill;  he  had  grown  weaker  and  weaker; 
his  end  was  drawing  near.  She  was  a  querulous  but  most 
reliable  woman,  the  nurse  attached  to  his  ward.  She 
had  replaced  an  attendant  who  had  obtained  leave  to 
spend  Christmas  at  home.  Poor  Newbold  was  very 
sensitive,  and  the  loud  voice  and  somewhat  demonstra- 
tive manner  of  the  new  woman  jarred  upon  his  nerves. 
I  went  to  the  matron. 

"There  is  a  young  woman  sent  here  through  Florence 
Nightingale — a  most  respectable  kind-looking  person," 
said  the  matron.  "She  has  only  been  here  a  week;  but 
I  don't  doubt  for  a  moment  she  will  turn  out  to  be  the 
best  nurse  in  the  hospital.  Shall  I  send  her  to  you?" 

"Thank  you  very  much;  pray  do,"  I  said.  "Send  her 
up  to  the  ward  at  once." 

The  Christmas  bells  were  ringing;  you  could  hear  the 
music  wandering  up  and  down  the  streets,  carried  hither 
and  thither  by  the  wind.  Visitors  had  all  left  the  wards 
for  the  night;  the  patients  lay  there  listening  to  the 
melody  of  the  bells,  and  thinking  of  other  days ;  the  light 
of  the  Christmas  candles  fell  upon  the  dark  leaves  of 
the  holly ;  here  and  there  the  white  berries  of  the  mistle- 


THE  HOSPITAL  MISTLETOE  173 

toe  reflected  back  the  subdued  glimmer.  It  is  a  sad  pic- 
ture, a  hospital  on  Christmas-Eve;  the  shadows  of  the 
place  seem  so  insignificant — such  tender  memories  hover 
about  the  narrow  beds. 

The  new  nurse  came  into  the  ward  while  I  sat  there. 
It  was  a  sweet  face,  as  I  saw  it  with  the  soft  light  upon 
it — a  kind,  sad,  pitying  face.  Newbold  looked  at  her 
curiously  as  she  entered.  Then  he  raised  himself  up 
suddenly,  and  before  I  hardly  knew  what  had  happened, 
he  was  locked  in  her  arms. 

"Lucy,  Lucy,  my  dear,  dear  sister!"  he  was  saying, 
his  voice  nearly  drowned  in  the  sobs  of  the  woman  whose 
face  was  lying  upon  his  shoulder. 

The  bells  appeared  to  receive  new  strength  just  at  that 
moment.  It  was  the  wind  which  brought  the  sound 
close  up  to  the  windows  on  its  way  down  the  river. 
"Thank  God!"  I  exclaimed  and  my  heart  leaped  with  a 
strange  joy.  I  felt  like  a  child  ready  to  weep.  It  was  as 
if  I  had  been  reading  some  pitiful  story.  I  walked  out 
into  the  corridor,  opened  a  window,  and  put  my  head 
into  the  frosty  air.  The  stars  crowded  the  sky,  and  the 
bell-music  seemed  to  belong  to  their  purity.  I  was  never 
fit  for  a  hospital-surgeon;  my  feelings  were  always  too 
little  under  control.  When  I  went  back  into  the  ward, 
she  was  sitting  by  his  side  holding  his  hand.  His  face 
was  full  of  peace  and  happiness.  It  was  as  if  an  angel 
had  been  there. 

We  buried  him  on  New  Year's  Day. 

Her  story  is  soon  told.  She  lost  her  husband  in  the 
Crimea.  After  that  she  joined  Florence  Nightingale's 
band  of  nurses,  and  eventually  came  back  to  England. 
Providence  sent  her  to  the  Severnshire  Hospital  on  that 
Christmas-Eve — sent  her,  that  George  Newbold's  last 
hours  might  be  solaced  with  her  tender  words  and  happy 
memories  of  the  Christmas-days  that  were  gone.  If  it 
were  not  next  to  impious  to  think  that  what  befell  after- 
wards was  anything  but  accidental,  I  could  fancy  that 
some  special  consideration  for  the  poor  hospital-surgeon 
also  filled  up  the  providential  design.  The  spring  came 


174  THE  INN  OF  REST 

and  the  summer,  and  the  stars  shown  once  more  above 
the  bell-music  that  the  wind  carried  down  to  the  river. 
It  we  had  been  young  people,  and  without  a  chastened 
sorrow  in  our  hearts,  the  bells  might  have  rung  afresh 
in  the  summer  that  followed;  for  the  house-surgeon 
married  the  heroine  of  this  sad  story,  and  she  sits  by  his 
side  with  her  sweet  sympathetic  smile,  while  he  tries  to 
tell  you,  without  faltering,  the  history  of  those  withered 
leaves. 

And  now  let  us  put  back  the  Christmas  treasure.  If 
you  will  rummage  over  the  contents  of  old  cabinets,  you 
must  come  upon  skeletons.  Close  the  drawer,  shut  down 
the  ancient  lid,  look  out  through  the  western  window, 
and  yonder  you  may  see  the  sun  making  "a  golden  set" 
behind  the  towers  of  the  County  Hospital,  in  Sabrina's 
classic  valley. 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  DISPENSARIES 
AND  HOSPITALS 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  DISPENSARIES  AND  HOSPITALS. 

|HE  impression  that  hospitals  are  a  Christian  in- 
novation is  much  more  widely  spread  than  per- 
sons competent  to  judge  of  its  legitimacy  might 
suppose.  Canon  Farrar,  in  a  "Life  of  Christ," 
which  has  acquired  some  popularity,  says,  "Amidst  all 
the  boasted  civilization  of  antiquity  there  existed  no 
hospitals,  no  penitentiaries,  no  asylums."  Professor 
Lightfoot  stated,  at  the  opening  of  a  hospital  last  year, 
that  hospitals  were  "a  creation  of  Christianity."  It  may, 
therefore,  be  of  some  interest  to  trace  the  history  of  the 
rise  of  hospitals  in  the  nations  of  antiquity ;  and  to  show 
that  they  have  not  been  confined  to  any  one  age  or  na- 
tion, and  that  they  are  the  natural  outcome  of  that  tender 
compassion  for  suffering  humanity  which  is  character- 
istic of  all  civilizations  and  of  every  cultured  religion. 

The  hospital  is  simply  the  development  of  the  dis- 
pensary, which  is  a  necessary  requirement  of  the  medical 
officer  appointed  and  paid  by  the  state  for  the  relief  of 
the  sick  poor.  Some  room  is  required  by  the  medical 
officer  in  which  to  see  his  patients  and  dispense  the 
drugs,  and  this  room  naturally  developed  into  the  hos- 
pital ward,  where  the  patients  could  be  continuously  un- 
der his  eye,  and  be  more  carefully  attended  than  in  their 
own  homes.  It  is  therefore  in  the  medical  officer  ap- 
pointed and  paid  by  the  state  that  we  are  to  find  the  ear- 
liest germ  and  first  idea  of  tfie  vast  network  of  hospitals 
which  has  spread  over  the  civilized  countries  of  the  world. 

These  medical  officers  were  an  institution  in  Egypt 
from  a  remote  antiquity,  for  in  the  eleventh  century  B.  C. 
there  was  a  College  of  Physicians  in  the  receipt  of  public 
pay,  and  regulated  by  law  as  to  the  nature  and  extent  of 
their  practice.  At  Athens,  in  the  fifth  century  B.  C., 
there  were  physicians  elected  and  paid  by  the  citizens; 


178  THE  INN   OF  REST 

there  were  also  dispensaries  in  which  they  received  their 
patients,  and  we  find  mention  made  of  one  hospital.  In 
the  fourth  century  B.  C.  an  edict  was  promulgated  in 
India  by  King  Asoka,  commanding  the  establishment 
of  hospitals  throughout  his  dominions;  and  we  have. di- 
rect proof  that  these  hospitals  were  flourishing  in  the  fifth 
and  in  the  seventh  centuries  A.  D.  There  was  probably 
a  leper-house  outside  the  walls  of  Jerusalem;  and  medi- 
cal officers  were  attached  in  early  times  to  the  Temple, 
and  in  later  times  to  the  synagogues.  Among  the  Ro- 
mans under  the  Empire,  physicians  were  elected  in  every 
city  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  inhabitants,  and  they 
received  a  salary  from  the  public  treasury.  And  the 
ancient  Mexicans  had  hospitals  in  the  principal  cities  "for 
the  cure  of  the  sick,  and  the  permanent  refuge  of  dis- 
abled soldiers."  Army-surgeons  are  of  very  remote  an- 
tiquity, for  we  read  of  them  in  Homer ;  and  they  won  the 
admiration  of  Plato,  because  "they  were  heroes  as  well  as 
physicians";  but  there  is  no  notice  of  the  military  hos- 
pital before  the  reign  of  Hadrian.  Hospitals  exclusively 
for  the  treatment  of  the  insane  are  of  comparatively  mod- 
ern growth,  and  are  first  found  among  the  Mohamme- 
dans ;  they  afterwards  spread  among  Christian  countries, 
the  earliest  being  found  in  Spain,  the  country  most  in- 
fluenced by  Mohammedan  thought.1 

It  was  around  the  temples  that  the  early  medical 
schools  centered,  for  it  was  natural  to  regard  the  "di- 
vine art  of  healing"  as  a  gift  of  the  gods.2  It  is 
Brahma  who  writes  the  Ayur-Veda,  the  Science  of  Life ; 
it  is  ^Esculapius  who  appears  in  human  form  at  Epi- 
daurus  and  extends  his  saving  right  hand  over  all  the 
earth  to  heal  the  souls  that  are  in  error  and  the  bodies 
that  are  diseased;3  and  Prometheus  in  the  midst  of  his 
sufferings  declares  that  he  has  gifted  mankind  with  the 
true  science  of  medicine.4  The  priests  were  the 
first  physicians ;  and  on  the  walls  of  the  temples  of  Egypt 
and  of  Greece  were  suspended  the  observations  and  the 
votive  tablets  of  the  cures  they  effected.  These  tablets 
are  very  curious,  because  they  are  a  strange  medley  of 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  179 

rational  medical  treatment  with  the  superstition  of 
charms  and  incantations;  and  they  are  most  important, 
because  they  not  infrequently  enable  us  to  trace  the 
rise  of  scepticism  in  the  charm  and  incantation,  and  the 
struggle  between  the  waning  power  of  the  priest  and  the 
increasing  skill  of  the  physician. 

The  Babylonians  and  Assyrians  alone,  among  the 
great  nations  of  antiquity,  had  no  physicians.  The  sick 
man  was  laid  on  a  couch  in  the  public  square,  and  the 
passers-by  were  required  to  ask  him  the  nature  of  his 
disease,  so  that  if  they  or  any  of  their  acquaintance  had 
been  similarly  afflicted,  they  might  advise  him  as  to 
the  remedies  he  should  adopt.5  This  custom  com- 
mended itself  to  Herodotus,  who  thought  it  almost  as 
wise  as  their  other  custom  of  selling  the  girls  of  the  vil- 
lage in  marriage,  so  that  the  "fairer  maidens  portioned 
off  the  plainer."  As  a  consequence,  incantations  to  drive 
out  the  evil  spirit  of  disease  were  in  much  request,  and 
the  nature  of  their  operations  may  be  gathered  from  the 
following  tablet : — 

"God  shall  stand  by  his  bedside ;  those  seven  evil  spir- 
its He  shall  root  out  and  expel  from  his  body ;  those  seven 
shall  never  return  to  the  sick  man."8 

[1.]  Egypt  claimed  the  invention  of  medicine.7 
This  claim  is  partially  recognized  in  Homer,  when  Poly- 
damna  gives  medicinal  herbs  to  Helen  in  Egypt,  a  coun- 
try producing  an  infinite  number  of  drugs,  and  where  the 
physician  possesses  knowledge  above  all  other  men  ;8 
and  is  fully' endorsed  by  M.  Chabas  after  a  careful  com- 
parison of  the  medical  papyrus  at  Berlin  with  the  best 
medical  works  of  Greece  and  Rome.9 

The  extreme  antiquity  of  medical  science  in  Egypt 
may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  the  medical  papyrus ' 
at  Berlin,  fourteenth  century  B.  C.,  contains  a  copy  of  a 
treatise  on  inflammation  (ouchet)  which  was  found  "writ- 
ten in  ancient  writing,  rolled  up  in  a  coffer  under  the  feet 
of  an  Anubis  in  the  town  of  Sokhem  (Letopolis),  in  the 
time  of  his  sacred  majesty  Thot  the  Righteous.  After  his 
death  it  was  handed  on  to  King  Snat  on  account  of  its  im- 


180  THE  INN  OF  REST 

portance.  It  was  then  restored  to  its  place  under  the 
feet  of  the  statue,  and  sealed  up  by  the  sacred  scribe  and 
wise  chief  of  the  physicians."10 

Medical  science  attained  so  high  a  degree  of  perfec- 
tion in  Egypt,  that  there  were  specialists  in  the  different 
branches  of  the  art,  and  the  physician  was  only  allowed 
to  practise  in  his  own  branch.  There  were  oculists  and 
dentists,  those  who  treated  mental  disorders,  and  those 
who  investigated  obscure  diseases — aide  TOV  afaveuv  vobcuv. lx 
There  are  medical  papyri  which  treat  of  these  sev- 
eral diseases.  In  the  Hermaic  books  a  whole  chapter 
is  devoted  to  diseases  of  the  eye,  and  mummies  have 
been  found  in  Thebes  with  their  teeth  stopped  in 
gold.12  Athothos,  son  and  successor  to  Menes,  the 
first  king  of  Egypt,  wrote  a  book  on  anatomy.13  The 
medical  papyrus  at  Berlin  contains  a  treatise  on  mid- 
wifery, and  not  less  than  170  prescriptions  for  the  cure  of 
diseases,  of  which  the  diagnosis  is  carefully  recorded.1* 
In  these  treatises  diseases  are  regarded  as  enemies,  not 
simply  to  be  cured,  but  to  be  attacked,  destroyed, 
driven  forth;15  a  vestige,  apparently,  of  the  ancient 
superstition  that  diseases  were  devils  which  possessed 
the  patient. 

To  guard  the  people  against  quacks  and  the  rash  ex- 
periments of  young  doctors,  the  Egyptian  physicians 
were  required  to  follow  the  rules  laid  down  in  the  medical 
treatises  preserved  in  the  principle  temple  of  each  city; 
the  idea  being  that  the  old  must  be  better  than  the  new.10 
Aristotle,  however,  says  that  they  were  allowed  to 
alter  the  orthodox  treatment;  yet  if  they  did  so,  it  was 
at  their  peril,  as  their  own  lives  were  forfeit  for  the  life 
of  the  patient."  This  rule,  when  followed,  secured 
the  physicians  of  Egypt  from  the  accusation  which  Pliny 
brings  against  the  profession  in  his  day :  "It  is  at  the  ex- 
pense of  our  perils  that  they  learn,  and  they  experiment- 
alize by  putting  us  to  death.  The  physician  is  the  only 
person  allowed  to  kill  with  impunity,  the  blame  being 
thrown  on  the  sick  man  who  is  dead  and  gone."18 

In  Egypt,  about  the  eleventh  century  B.  C,  there  was 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  181 

a  College  of  Physicians,19  who  seem  to  have  belonged  to 
the  sacerdotal  caste,  as  did  also  the  embalmers  who  are 
styled  "physicians"  in  Genesis.  They  were  not  confined 
to  one  sex;  the  sculptures  confirm  Exodus  1,  15, — women 
practised  medicine. 

The  physicians  were  the  paid  officers  of  the  state,  and 
we  may  therefore  conclude  that  they  were  required  to 
treat  the  poor  gratuitously;20  and  as  they  were  not 
likely  to  attend  the  sick  in  their  own  houses,  except  in 
extreme  cases,  we  may  further  assume  that,  as  in  the 
case  of  Athens,  there  were  official  houses  to  which  the 
sick  poor  repaired  at  fixed  times,  which  correspond  to 
our  medical  dispensaries.  Although  paid  by  the  state, 
they  were  allowed  to  receive  fees.21  This  care  for  the 
sick  poor  is  a  trait  of  character  we  might  naturally  ex- 
pect from  a  people  on  whose  sarcophagi  we  meet  with 
inscriptions  which  tell  how  the  deceased  "succored  the 
afflicted,  gave  bread  to  the  hungry,  drink  to  the  thirsty, 
clothes  to  the  naked,  shelter  to  the  outcast;  that  he 
opened  his  doors  to  the  stranger,  and  was  a  father  to  the 
afflicted." 

In  the  time  of  Herodotus  "every  place  in  Egypt  was 
full  of  doctors,"  whence  Pliny  concluded  that  no  country 
was  so  unhealthy ;  yet  Herodotus  says  that  few  countries 
were  so  salubrious,  which  he  attributes  to  the  uniformity 
of  the  climate.22 

Although  the  older  papyri  show  that  the  medical  treat- 
ment of  disease  was  rational,  post-mortems  even  being 
made  to  discover  the  source  of  disease,23  yet  charms 
and  incantations  were  by  no  means  excluded ;  and  dreams 
were  granted  to  devout  souls  who  had  consulted  physi- 
cians in  vain,  and  the  votive  offerings  of  arms,  ears,  eyes, 
etc.,  which  still  adorn  the  ancient  temples,24  show 
how  readily  the  superstitious  element  found  its  place  in 
Egypt,  as  it  afterwards  did  in  Greece  and  Rome,25 
and  as  it  does  to  this  day  in  many  European  Christian 
countries. 

There  is  a  curious  inscription  in  the  temple  of  the  god 
Chonson  at  Thebes,  which  points  to  a  struggle  between 


183  THE  INN  OF  REST 

reason  and  faith,  between  the  skill  of  the  physician  and 
the  prayer  of  the  priest.  Rameses  XII.  summons  before 
him  the  "Scribe  of  the  Houses  of  Life,"  and  orders  him 
to  select  one  who  shall  be  "a  man  of  an  intelligent  heart 
and  skilful  fingers,"  that  he  may  be  sent  to  cure  the 
young  Princess  of  Bouchten.  She  is  the  "little  sister" 
of  the  royal  wife,  and  bears  the  Semitic  name  Bentrash. 
The  physician  fails  to  cure  the  damsel,  for  she  is  pos- 
sessed with  an  evil  spirit.  Then  the  god  Chonson  is  sent 
from  Thebes  to  Bouchten  in  a  great  barge,  escorted  by 
five  smaller  barges  on  the  river,  and  by  nobles,  with  the 
god's  chariot  and  horses,  along  the  banks.  When  the 
god  arrives,  he  communicates  to  the  Princess  "his  virtue 
of  life,"  and  the  evil  spirit  comes  forth.28  We  unfor- 
tunately, only  possess  the  priests'  version  of  the  story; 
but  it  points  to  a  rivalry  between  the  rational  science  of 
the  physicians  and  the  superstitious  faith  of  the  priests. 

The  fame  of  the  medicine  of  Egypt  spread  to  all  lands. 
Cyrus  the  Persian  hears  of  it,  and  sends  to  King  Amasis 
of  Egypt  for  an  oculist.27  Darius  the  Great  had  at 
his  court  "certain  Egyptian  physicians,  whom  he  reck- 
oned the  best-skilled  physicians  in  the  world."28  The 
Hebrew  prophet  Jeremiah  says,  "O  virgin  daughter  of 
Egypt,  in  vain  shalt  thou  use  many  medicines ;  thou  shalt 
not  be  cured."29  It  lasted  until  the  time  of  the  Anto- 
nines,  so  that  Galen,  the  "wonder-worker,"  thought  it  no 
small  gain  to  have  studied  in  the  schools  of  Alexandria  ;30 
and  it  is  preserved  to  our  own  day,  wrapped  up  like 
one  of  its  own  mummies,  in  the  words  chemistry,  al- 
chemy, which  tell  us  that  the  cradle  of  medical  science 
was  in  the  land  of  the  great  god  Chemmis,  who  had  given 
to  Egypt  its  ancient  name,  Chemi.31 

[2.]  A  story  told  by  Herodotus  of  the  Egyptian  phy- 
sicians at  the  court  of  Darius  will  serve  to  carry  us  from 
the  school  of  Egypt  to  the  schools  of  Greece.  One  day,32 
when  mounting  his  horse,  Darius  sprained  his  foot. 
The  Egyptian  physicians  thought  it  was  a  dislocation, 
and  put  the  king  to  such  pain  by  the  violence  of  their 
treatment,  that  for  seven  days  and  nights  his  sleep  went 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITAES  183 

from  him.  On  the  eighth  day  some  of  the  courtiers  told 
him  of  a  Greek  prisoner  among  the  slaves  of  Oroetes, 
named  Democedes,  who  came  from  the  famous  medical 
school  of  Crotona.  In  such  haste  was  Democedes  sum- 
moned into  the  king's  presence  that  he  appeared  "just 
as  he  was,  clanking  his  fetters  and  wearing  his  rags." 
He  reversed  the  treatment  of  the  Egyptians,  and  cured 
the  King.  From  that  day  no  one  stood  so  high  in  the 
favor  of  Darius  as  Democedes.  He  also  cured  a  sore 
in  the  breast  of  Atossa,  daughter  of  Cyrus  and  wife  to 
Darius,  and  she  rewarded  him  by  aiding  him  to  make 
his  escape  to  Greece;  whence  he  returned  to  Crotona, 
and  married  the  daughter  of  his  fellow-townsman,  Milo 
the  Wrestler,  who  had  carried  off  the  prize  six  times  at 
the  Olympic  and  seven  times  at  the  Pythian  games  (sixth 
century  B.  C).  Crotona  was  celebrated  quite  as  much 
for  her  athletes  as  for  her  physicians;  indeed,  it  was  a 
proverb  that  the  last  among  the  wrestlers  of  Crotona 
were  the  first  among  the  other  Greeks.33  This  is  a 
point  of  extreme  interest ;  the  same  place  that  produced 
the  best  trainer  of  athletes  would  naturally  produce  the 
best  physician,8*  because  the  healthy  condition  of  the 
man's  body  was  the  aim  of  both;  and  as  the  trainer 
would  soon  learn  not  to  trust  in  charms  and  incanta- 
tions as  preparations  for  the  games,  so  would  the  physi- 
cian learn  to  distrust  charms,  and  to  strive  after  a  ra- 
tional system  of  medicine.  The  physicians  of  Crotona 
would  have  agreed  with  Plato  that  the  art  of  the  physi- 
cian was  to  cure  the  sickness  and  the  wounds  of  men  of 
good  constitutions  only,  and  to  leave  the  weak  and  sickly 
to  their  fate;  and  applaud  him  when  he  quoted  the  tra- 
dition  that  JEsculapius  had  been  struck  by  lightning  be- 
cause he  so  far  forgot  the  sacred  obligations  of  his  art 
as  to  allow  himself  to  be  bribed  to  heal  a  rich  man  who 
was  at  the  point  of  death.  Indeed  Plato  complained  of 
what  he  calls  "our  present  system  of  medicine"  as  being 
calculated  to  "educate  diseases,"  and  as  opposed  to  the 
old  practise  of  the  Guild  of  ^Esculapius.  He  lays  the  blame 
at  the  door  of  Herodicus,  a  trainer  who  had  a  sickly 


184  THE   INN   OF   REST 

constitution:  "He,  by  a  happy  combination  of  training 
and  doctoring,  found  out  the  way  of  torturing,  first  and 
principally  himself,  and  secondly  the  rest  of  the 
world,  by  the  invention  of  a  lingering  death."35  Plato 
might  laugh  at  Herodicus,  nevertheless  he  was  the  mas- 
ter of  Hippocrates,  the  "Father  of  Medicine" — fifth  cen- 
tury B.  C. 

All  medical  science  before  the  time  of  Hippocrates  was, 
says  Pliny,  "lost  in  the  densest  night ;  he  was  the  first  to 
compile  a  code  of  medical  precepts,"36  derived  partly 
from  the  traditions  of  the  family  of  the  Asclepiadse  to 
which  he  belonged,37  and  partly  from  the  study  of 
the  votive  tablets  in  the  great  temple  at  Cos.38  Dion 
Cassius  says  that  Democedes  of  Crotona  and  Hippocrates 
of  Cos  were  the  two  most  distinguished  physicians  of  an- 
tiquity.39 Galen  tells  as  that  the  Asclepiadse  founded 
the  three  great  medical  schools  of  Rhodes,  Cnidos,  and 
Cos.  These  were  Doric  settlements,40  and  we  find 
that  their  influence  survived  as  late  as  the  fifth  century 
B.  C.  by  the  use  of  the  Doric  dialect  both  in  medical  con- 
versation and  prescriptions,41  and  also  in  the  prose 
oracles  given  at  Delphi,  which  were  so  largely  consulted 
by  the  sick.42 

At  Athens  in  the  time  of  Plato,  we  find  that  some  of 
the  physicians  were  elected  by  the  people  and  paid  from 
the  public  treasury.  Socrates,  for  instance,  speaks  of  one 
"desiring  to  obtain  a  medical  appointment  from  the  gov- 
ernment" tarpiKov  tyov*3  and  there  was  a  technical  term 
applied  especially  to  physicians  who  practised  with 
a  public  salary  dvpooiEiciv.**  These  state  physicians,  after 
they  had  been  elected  in  the  Ecclesia  or  other  as- 
sembly,45 appear  to  have  appointed  slave  doctors 
under  them  to  attend  on  the  poor,  while  they  attended 
on  the  rich,  and  either  by  their  own  or  the  eloquence  of 
some  friendly  rhetorician,46  persuaded  the  patient  to 
drink  the  medicine  or  to  submit  to  the  knife  and  the  hot 
iron.  Indeed  this  system  of  persuasion  as  a  part  of  the 
medical  art  became  at  last  ridiculous:  "Foolish  fellow! 
you  are  not  healing  the  sick  man,  you  are  educating  him ; 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  185 

and  he  does  not  want  to  be  made  a  doctor,  but  to  get 
well";47  and  in  the  next  generation  it  was  completely 
exploded;  for,  as  Aristotle  says,  the  duty  of  a  physician 
is  simply  to  prescribe.48 

Very  different  is  the  off-hand  manner  in  which  the 
slave  doctors  treated  their  patients ;  they  waste  no  words 
with  them,  but  run  about  from  one  patient  to  another, 
and  dose  them  as  they  think  proper;  or  they  "wait  for 
them  in  their  dispensaries,"  n>  r.  larpeioif.*9  This  pas- 
sage clearly  shows  that  there  were  at  Athens,  in  the 
fifth  century  B.  C,  dispensaries  to  which  the  sick  poor 
repaired  to  be  treated  for  their  diseases;  not  indeed  by 
the  most  skillful  physicians,  but  by  physicians  paid  by 
the  state  to  look  after  their  ailments.  These  dispensaries 
varied  in  number  according  to  the  prevalence  of  dis- 
ease: "Where  diseases  increase  in  a  state,  then  larpeia 
are  always  being  opened."50 

The  temples  of  ./Esculapius  were,  however,  the  schools 
in  which  the  students  who  had  taken  the  noble  Hippo- 
cratic  oath  studied,  partly  from  the  votive  tablets,  and 
partly  from  the  treatment  of  the  patients  who  resorted 
thither.  That  patients  did  resort  to  the  temples  is  evi- 
dent from  the  amusing  scene  described  by  the  slave  who 
attended  Plautus  when  he  went  to  the  temple  to  be  cured 
of  his  blindness.  When  night  came  on,  all  were  com- 
manded to  keep  silence,  and  not  to  move  should  they 
hear  the  god  passing  before  the  altars.  The  slave  peeps 
through  a  hole  in  his  threadbare  cloak,  and  sees  the  priest 
"consecrate  into  a  sack"  the  offerings  of  cakes  and  dried 
figs  made  by  the  sick.51  Afterwards  there  followed 
the  mixing  of  the  drugs  with  the  pestle  and  mortar,  and 
the  anointing  the  eyes  with  the  ointment.  The  patients 
were  of  both  sexes,  for  it  was  an  old  woman  whose  savory 
posset  excited  the  cupidity  of  the  slave  Cario.62 

There  is  one,  though  we  regret  to  say  only  one,  hos- 
pital (iraiuvuw)  mentioned  in  Greek  literature,  and  that 
only  by  one  author,  the  comic  poet  Crates,  middle  of  the 
fifth  century  B.  C.  It  was  situated  probably  in  the 

Piraeus — cm 


186  THE  INN  OF  REST 

The  state  physician  did  not  receive  private  fees,  but 
their  state  emoluments  may  be  guessed  by  the  pay  of 
Democedes  before  he  was  carried  prisoner  to  the  king- 
dom of  Darius.  He  fled  from  his  father,  who  was  a  cele- 
brated physician  of  his  day  at  Crotona,  and  came  to 
^Egina,  where  his  skill  caused  the  state  to  hire  him  at 
£243, 15s.  a  year;  in  the  next  year  the  Athenians  engaged 
him  at  £406,  15s.;  in  the  next,  Poly  crates  obtained  him 
for  £487,  10s.54  The  first  payment  made  to  him  by 
Darius  was  a  pair  of  golden  fetters,  to  remind  him,  per- 
haps, that  although  he  would  now  be  laden  with  honors 
and  wealth,  yet  he  was  to  remain  a  prisoner,  exiled  from 
his  native  land. 

[3.]  Hitherto  we  have  met  only  with  state  physicians 
and  dispensaries,  and  but  one  hospital;  it  is  to  India  we 
must  turn  to  see  a  system  of  hospitals  spreading  over 
the  country. 

When  Brahma  took  compassion  on  the  weakness  and 
suffering  of  mankind,  and  wrote  for  them  the  commen- 
tary on  the  Vedas,  he  devoted  one  treatise  to  the  science 
of  medicine.  Hence  it  was  that  the  ancient  Hindus 
ascribed  to  the  medical  art  a  divine  origin,  and  that  the 
Brahmans  were  the  first  physicians.  Fragments  only  of 
this  Ayur-Veda  remain,  but  they  are  sufficient  to  show  an 
advanced  knowledge  of  the  art,  in  that  they  treat  both  of 
surgery  and  the  practice  of  medicine.55 

Soon  after  the  conquests  of  Alexander  the  Great,  Meg- 
asthenes  the  Greek  was  sent  on  an  embassage  to  the 
court  of  Sandrocottus,  where  he  resided  for  some  years. 
Among  his  notes,  preserved  by  Strabo,  we  find  that  "next 
in  honor  to  the  Sramanos  were  the  physicians,  for  they 
apply  philosophy  to  the  study  of  the  nature  of  man.*  *  * 
They  cure  diseases  by  diet  rather  than  by  medicinal  reme- 
dies."56 The  grandsen  of  Sandrocottus  was  the  cele- 
brated King  Asoka,  325-282  B.  C,  one  of  the  greatest 
monarchs  who  ever  graced  the  throne.  He  embraced  the 
religion  of  Buddha,  and  almost  immediately  afterwards 
promulgated  a  series  of  edicts,  some  score  of  which  still 
exist  inscribed  on  pillars  and  graven  in  the  living  rock. 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  187 

Among  them  there  occurs  the  following,  as  translated  by 
Mr.  Prinsep : — "Everywhere  within  the  province  of  Piya- 
dasi  (Asoka),  the  beloved  of  heaven,  as  well  as  in  the 
parts  occupied  by  the  faithful*  *  *and  moreover  within 
the  dominion  of  Antiochus  the  Greek  (the  Bactrian  king- 
dom)* *  *every where  the  heaven-beloved  Piyadasi's 
double  system  of  medical  aid  is  established — both  medi- 
cal aid  for  men  and  medical  aid  for  animals — together 
with  medicaments  of  all  sorts  which  are  suitable*  *  * 
and  where  they  are  not,  they  are  to  be  prepared,  and  to  be 
planted,  both  root-drugs  and  herbs."57  There  is  also 
a  legend  that  Asoka,  seeing  how  people  often  died  from 
diseases  and  sores  which  were  at  first  simple  and  easily 
cured,  established  public  dispensaries  at  the  four  gates 
of  Patna.88  In  the  year  400  A.  D.,  seven  hundred 
years  after  Asoka's  edict,  the  Chinese  pilgrim,  Fa-Hian, 
visited  India,  and  casually  mentions  in  his  Travels  that 
he  found  hospitals  in  complete  working  order  at  Asoka's 
own  city  of  Patna.  "The  nobles  and  landowners  of  this 
country  have  founded  hospitals  in  the  city,  to  which  the 
poor  of  all  countries,  the  destitute,  the  cripples,  the  dis- 
eased, may  repair  for  shelter.  They  receive  every  kind 
of  requisite  help  gratuitously.  Physicians  inspect  their 
diseases,  and  according  to  their  cases  order  them  food  and 
drink,  decoctions  and  medicines,  everything,  in  fact, 
which  may  contribute  to  their  ease.  When  cured,  they 
depart  at  their  own  convenience."59 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  later  (648  A.  D.),  another 
Chinese  pilgrim,  Hiouen-Thsang,  visited  India,  and  men- 
tions hospitals  at  several  places.  At  the  Port  of  the 
Ganges  "les  rois  qui  aiment  a  faire  le  bien,  y  ont  etabli 
une  maison  de  bienfaisance,  qui  est  pourvue  de  mets 
recherches  et  de  medicaments  de  tout  genre,  pour  donner 
1'aumone  aux  veufs  et  aux  veuves,  et  secourir  les  orphe- 
lins."  Elsewhere  he  says :  "Les  grands  personnages  des 
cinq  Indes*  *  *  *ont  £tabli  des  maisons  de  bienfaisance, 
ou  Ton  distribue  des  boissons,  Ais  Vivres,  et  des  medi- 
caments pour  secourir  les  pauvres  et  les  malades."  "Ily 
avait  jadis  dans  ce  royaume  une  multitude  de  maisons  de 


188  THE  INN  OF  REST 

bienfaisance,  on  Ton  secourait  les  malheureux."80 
These  houses  were  hospices  as  well  as  hospitals  at  the  time 
of  Hiouen-Thsang's  visit. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  present  century  there  still 
flourished  at  Surat  a  hospital  set  apart  for  the  treatment 
of  animals.  It  covered  twenty-five  acres,  and  was  divided 
into  courts  and  wards  for  the  accommodation  of  the  dumb 
patients.  When  an  animal  broke  a  limb,  or  was  other- 
wise disabled,  the  owner  brought  it  to  the  hospital,  where 
it  was  received  without  regard  to  the  caste  or  the  nation 
of  its  master,  and  was  treated  with  the  greatest  care; 
and  if  need  be,  found  a  peaceful  asylum  for  the  infirmities 
of  old  age.61  "If  proper  inquiry  were  directed  to  this 
building,"  says  Mr.  Prinsep,  "I  dare  say  it  would  be  dis- 
covered to  be  a  living  example — the  only  one  that  has 
braved  twenty  centuries— of  the  humane  acts  of  Asoka, 
recorded  at  no  great  distance  on  a  rock  in  Guzerat." 

Further  investigation  will  doubtless  bring  to  light 
many  other  instances  of  this  wise  and  compassionate 
edict  of  Asoka  having  been  put  in  force  over  the  whole 
country;  for,  quite  recently,  Major  Kittoe  (1852)  found 
in  the  course  of  his  excavations  at  Sarnath,  "a  large 
quadrangle  or  hospital,  with  pestles  and  mortars,  etc."62 

The  great  interest  of  these  hospitals  lies  not  only  in 
the  large-hearted  toleration  which  opened  them  "to  the 
poor  of  all  countries,"  and  in  the  liberality  which  supplied 
"help  to  all  gratuitously,"  first  fruits  of  that  noble-minded 
charity  which  knows  no  distinction  of  race  or  creed  in  the 
presence  of  suffering  humanity,  and  which  found  so  ten- 
der an  illustration  in  Christ's  story  of  the  Good  Samari- 
tan, but  also  in  the  fact  that  these  hospitals  are  an  evo- 
lution such  as  we  might  naturally  expect  from  the  teach- 
ing of  the  religion  of  Buddha,  which  Asoka  had  adopted. 
The  central  point  round  which  all  the  ethics  of  Buddhism 
revolve — the  doctrine  which  imparts  to  it  so  great  a  vi- 
tality and  strength — is  the  law  of  self-sacrifice  carried 
to  the  point  of  complete  devotion,  so  that  a  man  should 
lay  down  his  life  for  his  fellow-men,  and  in  certain  ex- 
treme cases  for  the  lower  animals.  Moreover,  the  problem 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  189 

of  existence  which  Buddha  endeavored  to  solve  is  the  way 
by  which  mankind  may  be  saved  from  disease,  decay,  and 
death.  The  life  of  the  founder  was  in  itself  the  highest 
ideal  of  his  religion,  for  Buddha  was  manifested  in  the 
form  of  man  because  his  exceeding  love  moved  him  with 
compassion  for  the  sons  of  men;63  and  he  left  the 
home  of  his  reputed  father  to  live  among  the  poor  and 
wretched,  in  order  that  he  might  bring  back  those  who 
have  wandered  from  the  right  way,  that  he  might  en- 
lighten those  who  are  living  in  darkness  and  gloomy  er- 
ror, and  that  he  might  remove  from  the  world  all  sources 
of  pain  and  suffering  and  sorrow."*  • 

[4.]  On  passing  from  the  East  to  the  extreme  West, 
we  find  that  the  ancient  Mexicans  had  hospitals  in  the 
principal  cities,  "for  the  cure  of  the  sick,  and  for  the 
permanent  refuge  of  disabled  soldiers."  Surgeons  were 
placed  over  them,  who  were  "so  far  better  than  those  in 
Europe,"  says  the  old  chronicler  Torquemada,  "that 
they  did  not  protract  the  cure  in  order  to  increase  the 
pay."65 

This  care  for  the  sick  and  disabled  might  naturally  be 
expected  from  a  people  who  were  accustomed  to  hear  the 
form  of  absolution  which  followed  on  the  confession  of 
their  sins  close  with  the  words :  "Clothe  the  naked,  feed 
the  hungry,  whatever  privations  it  may  cost  thee;"66 
and  who  worshiped  God  as  "The  merciful  and  long- 
suffering,  the  enjoiner  of  charity."67 

[5.]  The  history  of  medicine  may  be  traced  with  tol- 
erable clearness  in  the  Hebrew  nation. 

So  long  as  diseases  were  regarded  as  put  upon  and 
taken  off  men  by  Jehovah — as,  for  instance,  in  the  pas- 
sage, "I  will  put  none  of  these  diseases  upon  thee,  that  I 
put  upon  the  Egyptians,  for  I  am  Jehovah  that  healeth 
thee,"68 — the  priests,  as  Hi's  representatives  were  the 
physicians  to  afflict  and  to  cure.  The  fame  of  King  Solo- 
mon as  a  physician  still  holds  its  place  in  the  traditions 
of  the  East  and  the  Talmud  assigns  to  him  a  "volume  of 
cures."  After  his  time,  when  the  priestly  power  declined 
before  the  majesty  of  the  prophetic,  the  influence  which 


190  THE  INN  OF  REST 

medical  skill  gives  among  a  rude  people  was  eagerly 
grasped  by  the  prophets,  and  medicine  was  taught  in 
their  "schools."  Their  sacred  scriptures  record  that  the 
prophets  struck  men  with  two  of  the  most  terrible  dis- 
eases of  the  nation,  leprosy  and  blindness,  and  that  they 
cured  the  sick,  and  even  raised  the  dead  to  life.  At  a 
prophet's  word  a  king's  hand  is  withered  as  he  stands 
before  the  altar  surrounded  by  his  court;  at  the  same 
word  the  hand  is  restored  to  its  former  strength.  The  de- 
cline of  the  healing  power  among  the  priests  is  probably 
marked  by  the  chronicler's  lament  that  King  Asa,  in  his 
disease,  "sought  not  to  Jehovah,  but  to  the  physicians." 

On  the  return  of  the  exiles  from  Babylon,  the  medical 
art  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  new  power  in  the  state — 
the  scribes.  They  raised  the  dignity  of  the  physician  to 
a  high  pinnacle,  and  the  knowledge  of  medicine  became 
an  essential  qualification  for  membership  in  the  Great 
Sanhedrim :  "Honor  a  physician  with  the  honor  due  un- 
to him  for  the  use  ye  may  have  of  him ;  for  the  Lord  hath 
created  him*  *  *  *He  shall  receive  honor  of  the  King."89 
The  art  reached  its  fullest  developments  among 
the  Essenes,  a  Jewish  sect  who  lived  an  ascetic  life, 
ruled  by  love  to  God  and  man.  They  studied  the  sacred 
books  for  the  service  of  God,  and  medicine  for  the  ser- 
vice of  man. 

The  surgeon  and  the  physician  are  treated  as  distinct 
functionaries  of  the  Mishna.70  We  read  of  surgery 
in  the  Book  of  the  Prophet  Ezekiel,  and  curiously 
enough  in  connection  with  Egypt:  "I  have  broken  the 
arm  of  Pharaoh,  King  of  Egypt ;  it  shall  not  be  bound  up 
to  be  healed,  to  put  a  roller  to  bind  it."71  Rollers  to 
bind  are  used  to  this  day.  The  apothecary's  trade  is 
frequently  mentioned;  for  instance,  "The  Lord  hath  cre- 
ated medicines  out  of  the  earth*  *  *  *with  such  doth  He 
heal  men  and  taketh  away  their  pains ;  of  such  doth  the 
apothecary  make  a  confection."72  Josephus  mentions 
female  physicians.7* 

Physicians  had  from  early  times  been  a  necessity  to 
the  nation.  Manetho's  account  of  the  Hebrew  slaves  in 


190  '    Rj 

&«f  a  rude  vas   eagerly 

and  ••  W84  taufr 

•acred  scripturer 
;  ;th  two  of  the  - 

sy  and  s,  and  that 

•-n  raised  th«>  dead  to  life, 
tig's  hand  is  withered  as  he  st 
rounded  by  his  court ;  at  the  s 
restored  to  itr-  former  strength.    Tht 
ig  power  among  the  priests  is  prob; 
hfoniclers  lament  that  King  Asa,  in 
t  not  to  Jehovah,  but  to  the  physicians." 
i  of  the  exiles  from  Babylon,  the  medical 
he  hands  of  the  new  power  in  the  state — 
:ey  raised  the  dignity  of  the  physician  to 
cle,  and  the  knowledge  of  medicine  became 
qualification  for  membership  in  the  Great 
"Honor  a  physician  with  the  honor  due  un- 
se  ye  may  have  of  him ;  for  the  Lord  hath 

twELHjffb&k&P&niteXV  °f  *h«  King."" 

hed     its     fullest     developments     among 

w*w«.»  a  Jewish  sect  who  lived  an  ascetic  life, 

:  to  God  ami  man.    They  studied  the  sacred 

c  service  of  God,  and  medicine  for  the  ser- 

ron  and  the  an  are  treated  as  distinct 

f-.i'S'  •  of   the    Mi*hna.T*     We    read    of   surgery 

>'*wk   of   the    Prophet    Ezekiel,    and    curiously 

ction  with  Egypt:    "I  have  broken  the 

it  shall  not  be  bourn' 

t«  **  T  put  a  roller  to  bind  il 

b»tk!  «t*c  ^5-*^  to    this  day.    The  A\ 
;  >iu-J  ;  for  instance,  ' 

at^l  tt ..  at  of  the  earth*  *  *      •  i  He 

btiii  met?  *f-  away  their  paiV  h  the 

¥|x,-r  r;^.'     f7iake   a   confection."7*     Josephuu    mentions 

Pity  si.  mi  early  times  been  a  necessity  to 

•>'s  account  of  the  Hebrew  slaves  in 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  191 

Egypt  is,  that  they  were  driven  away  by  the  king  be- 
cause they  defiled  the  land  with  their  leprosy.  This  dis- 
ease became  so  identified  with  the  nation,  not  only  in 
their  neighbors'  eyes  but  in  their  own,  that  to  the  ques- 
tion asked  in  the  Talmud,  "What  is  the  name  of  the  Mes- 
sias?"  the  answer  is,  "The  Leper."7*  This  singular 
identification  of  the  Messiah  with  the  characteristic  dis- 
ease of  the  people  obtained  a  place  among  the  Christian 
legends  of  the  Middle  Ages.  When  for  instance,  St.  Fran- 
cis d'  Assissi  dismounts  from  his  horse  to  succor  a  leper, 
he  finds  in  the  leper  the  Christ.75  This  strange  idea 
was  probably  founded  on  the  Vulgate  rendering  of 
Isaiah  IV.,  4,  "Nos  putavimus  eum  quasi  leprosum." 
The  ceremonial  observances  which  required  the  lepers  to 
"show  themselves  to  the  priest,"  assumes  a  knowledge 
of  medicine  in  some  officials  connected  with  the  priestly 
order.  Accordingly  we  find  that  physicians  were  in  later 
times  attracted  not  only  to  the  temple  but  also  to  the 
synagogues.  They  were  elected,  as  were  the  Greek  state 
physicians,  by  the  voice  of  the  people,  to  whom  they 
were  responsible.76  The  physicians  in  all  times, 
whether  priests,  prophets,  or  scribes,  received  fees77 
— in  early  times,  "bread  and  cakes  and  honey"  from  the 
poor,  camel-loads  of  stuffs,  with  gold  and  silver,  from 
the  rich;  in  later  times,  "such  things  as  were  com- 
manded." 

The  contagious  nature  of  leprosy  required  that  the 
wretched  patients  should  dwell  apart  from  the  abodes 
of  men;  so  we  read  of  them  herded  together  in  miser- 
able groups,  prowling  about  the  outer  gates  of  cities, 
or  wandering  over  the  country,  always  raising  their 
weird  cry,  "Unclean,  unclean!"  and  standing  afar  off 
when  they  saw  their  fellow-men  approaching.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  houses  may  have  been  erected  for  their  ac- 
commodation outside  the  city  walls  of  some  of  the  larger 
towns.  Of  one  such  house  we  read,  but  as  in  the  case 
of  ancient  Greece,  of  one  only,  the  "several  house"  into 
which  King  Uzziah  retired  when  the  "leprosy  mounted 
into  his  forehead,"  and  the  priests  with  indecent  haste 


192  THE  INN  OF  REST 

thrust  out  from  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  temple  the 
sorrow-stricken  leper,  who  himself  "hasted  to  go  out." 
Ewald,  Gesenius,  and  other  great  scholars,  see  in  this 
"several  house,"  or  "house  of  separation,"  or  "free 
house,"  a  hospital  corresponding  to  the  leper  hospitals 
of  later  times.  It  may  have  been  in  this  house  of  sepa- 
ration that  some  leper  wrote  the  touching  "Prayer  of 
Grevious  Complaint,"  in  which  he  cries  aloud  to  Jehovah ; 
"I  am  counted  with  them  that  go  down  into  the  pit,  free 
among  the  dead.  Lover  and  friend  hast  Thou  put  from 
me,  Thou  hast  made  me  an  abomination  unto  them.  I 
am  shut  up,  I  cannot  come  forth."78 

Care  for  the  sick,  a  characteristic  of  the  Jews  to  this 
day,  is  what  we  might  look  for  in  the  nation  whose  sacred 
writings  inculcate  as  the  highest  religion  love  to  God 
and  love  to  man;  and  whose  greatest  rabbis  taught,  "Be 
not  slow  to  visit  the  sick,  for  that  shall  make  thee  to  be 
beloved,"79  and  raised  the  kindly  act  towards  the 
sick  man  to  the  dignity  of  a  deed  done  to  God,  for  "the 
glory  of  God  hovers  over  the  couch  of  the  sick."80 

[6.]  The  elder  Pliny  tells  us  that  for  600  years  the 
Romans  had  shown  a  repugnance  to  the  art  of  medicine, 
and  he  boasts  that  medicine  is  the  only  one  of  the  arts 
of  Greece  which  the  Romans  refuse  to  cultivate.  It  was 
on  this  account,  he  says,  that  the  temple  of  ^Esculapius 
was  built,  in  the  first  instance,  outside  the  city  walls, 
and  was  afterwards  removed  to  an  island  in  the  Tiber. 
Plutarch  revenges  himself  by  saying  that  the  temple  was 
built  in  imitation  of  the  famous  temple  at  Epidaurus, 
which  was  situated  at  a  distance  of  five  miles  from  the 
city  for  the  sake  of  the  fresh  air  and  change  of  scene. 

Pliny  is  probably  correct  in  stating  that  in  the  earlier 
days  of  the  Republic  physicians  were  unknown,  and  that 
for  some  time  afterwards  they  were  confined  to  foreign- 
ers, chiefly  Greeks81  and  Egyptians,  and  to  slaves. 
The  first  physician  who  came  from  Greece  to  Rome,  in 
219  B.  C.,  had  a  surgery  (taberna)  provided  for  him  at 
the  public  cost,  at  the  Acilian  crossway;  the  Romans 
called  him  Vulnerarius,  the  wound-curer ;  but  he  hacked 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  193 

and  cauterized  his  patients  so  mercilessly,  that  his  name 
was  changed  to  Carnifex,  the  executioner.82  Cato 
hated  the  Greek  physicians  because  they  spoke  of  the 
Romans  as  "barbarians"  and  "clodhoppers";  and  he  be- 
came possessed  with  the  idea  that  they  meant  to  poison 
the  Romans  wholesale  with  their  drugs.  The  use  of 
Latin  by  physicians  in  our  day  in  their  prescriptions  may 
be  a  survival  of  the  idea,  which  is  by  no  mean  confined 
to  Pliny's  time,  that  "people  lose  confidence  in  that  which 
is  intelligible  to  them";  for,  as  he  says,  even  the  few 
Romans  who  studied  medicine  thought  it  necessary  to 
write  their  prescriptions  in  Greek,  for  "if  they  should 
attempt  to  treat  of  the  disease  in  any  other  language, 
they  will  certainly  lose  all  credit,  even  with  the  ignorant 
who  do  not  know  a  word  of  Greek."  Slaves  skilled  in 
medicine  were  attached  to  all  the  great  houses,  and  Jus- 
tinian allows  the  maximum  price  of  sixty  gold  pieces  to 
be  paid  for  both  male  and  female.88 

Pliny  accuses  the  physicians  of  extreme  avarice.  In- 
deed, their  gains  were  so  large  that  skilled  artisans — boot- 
makers, carpenters,  tanners,  and  even  gravediggers — be- 
came doctors,  and  unsuccessful  doctors  sank  back  into 
the  humbler  trades. 

"Nuper  erat  medicus,  nunc  est  vespillo  Diaulus, 
Quod  vespillo  facit,  fecerat  et  medicus."84 

Their  charlatanism,  bad  manners,  and  ignorance  were 
so  great  that  Galen  says  the  greater  part  of  them  could 
read  only  with  difficulty,  and  he  counsels  his  colleagues 
to  be  on  their  guard  lest  they  should  make  grammatical 
blunders  when  conversing  with  their  patients ;  and  he 
moreover  complains  that  at  the  bedside  of  the  patient  the 
rival  doctors  so  far  forget  themselves  that  they  abuse 
each  other,  put  out  their  tongues,  and  even  come  to 
blows.85  Pliny  laments  that  there  is  no  law  to  pun- 
ish their  ignorance,  and  he  chuckles  over  the  well-known 
epitaph,  "Turba  medicorum  perii."  Under  those  circum- 
stances, one  is  not  surprised  to  find  ex  votos  of  arms  and 
legs,  ears  and  eyes,  and  tablets  commemorative  of  suc- 
cessful dreams,  adorning  the  temples  both  at  Rome  and 


194  THE  INN  OF  REST 

in  the  provinces.  One  tablet  reminds  us  of  the  story  of 
the  cure  of  the  young  Egyptian  princess  by  the  god  after 
the  failure  of  the  physicians;  it  is  the  tablet  of  a  blind 
slave  at  Rome  to  Minerva  Medica,  the  "good  goddess," 
for  the  restoration  of  sight;  "after  he  had  been  given  up 
by  the  physicians,  he  was  cured  by  the  grace  of  our  lady 
and  the  use  of  her  medicines."86  It  was  this  super- 
stitious element  which  caused  the  miraculous  cures  of 
the  Emperor  Vespasian  at  Alexandria  to  be  attested  by 
many  among  the  great  multitude  who  beheld  them,  even 
after  the  Flavian  line  had  become  extinct,  and  nothing 
was  to  be  gained  by  falsehood.87 

Physicians  and  surgeons  followed  each  their  own  func- 
tions, and  we  read  of  specialists,  oculists,  dentists, 
aurists  (auricularii) ,  etc.;  there  were  court  physicians, 
among  whom  we  read  of  one  who  was  above  the  others 
(supra  medicos')  ;  and  women  (medicd)  were  employed  for 
diseases  of  women  and  children. 

In  the  time  of  the  Antonines  we  read  of  a  "chief  of  the 
physicians,"  i  ap^wzrpof.88  Archiatri  populares  were  pro- 
vided for  every  city  according  to  its  size;  they  formed 
a  College  of  Physicians,  and  seem  to  have  held  a  sort 
of  examination  of  persons  qualified  to  practise.  They 
were  elected  by  a  vote  of  the  citizens,  and  received  a 
salary  from  the  public  treasury.  They  were  required 
to  treat  all  the  sick  who  came  to  them  free  of  charge, 
but  they  were  appointed  primarily  for  the  sake  of  the 
poor.89 

It  is,  however,  at  Epidaurus  that  we  find  a  house  which 
was  one  of  the  noblest  expressions  of  the  tender  feel- 
ing and  gentle  sympathy  with  suffering  humanity  which 
in  the  second  and  third  centuries  of  our  era  were  be- 
coming such  marked  characteristics  of  the  cultivated  Ro- 
man gentleman.  Many  cultured  Romans  took  the  same 
tour  as  that  described  by  Livy;  ^Emilius  Paulus  went 
to  Athens,  "filled  with  the  decayed  relics  of  ancient 
grandeur";  thence  to  Corinth,  with  its  beautiful  views 
and  busy  modern  life;  and  thence  to  Epidaurus,  famous 
for  its  temple  of  ^Esculapius,  "then  rich  in  offering's, 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  195 

which  the  wealthy  had  dedicated  to  the  Deity  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  remedies  which  had  restored  them 
to  health,  but  now,"  he  adds  sorrowfully,  "filled  only 
with  their  traces,  showing  whence  they  have  been  torn 
away."80  As  the  tourist  of  the  time  of  the  Antonines 
approached  the  walls  which  surrounded  the  temple,  the 
sacred  grove,  and  the  massive  buildings  (whose  ruined 
mounds  to  this  day  attest  their  former  magnificence,)01 
he  would  see  a  house  built  before  the  entrance  to  the 
gate  to  shelter  the  aged,  and  the  delicate  women,  who 
were  forbidden  to  tarry  within,  lest  the  sacred  precincts 
should  be  defiled  by  those  who  were  entering  and  by  those 
who  were  leaving  life.  That  house  had  been  erected  by 
Emperor  Antoninus,  who  won  from  the  Roman  Senate 
and  the  people  that  most  touching  of  all  the  titles  of 
antiquity,  The  Pius.92 

[7.]  We  read  of  military  surgeons  as  early  as  the 
time  of  Homer.  "In  those  days,"  says  Plato,  "the  sons 
of  Asclepios  were  heroes  as  well  as  physicians ;  for  when 
the  arrow  of  Pandarus  wounded  Menelaus,  they  sucked 
the  blood  out  of  his  wound,  and  sprinkled  soothing  reme- 
dies (il.  iv.  218)  :  these  remedies  they  thought  to  be 
enough  to  heal  any  man  whose  constitution  was  healthy 
and  sound."98  The  state  physicians  of  Egypt  were 
forbidden  to  take  fees  when  attached  to  the  army  in  the 
time  of  war.9*  Cyrus  employed  surgeons  to  march 
with  his  army;  so  did  the  Spartans.  Among  the  Ro- 
mans, soldiers  dressed  each  other's  wounds  until  the 
time  of  Augustus,  when  we  first  hear  of  military  sur- 
geons. The  Grecian  army  wives  and  mothers  "did  not 
fear  to  search  for  and  count  the  gashes"  of  the  wounded 
heroes  whom  they  had  accompanied  to  the  battle.95 

It  is  not,  however,  until  the  reign  of  Hadrian  that  we 
find  the  military  hospital,  which  is  called  valetudinarium. 
It  was  under  the  control  of  the  prefect  of  the  camp, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  see  that  the  surgeons  visited  their 
patients.98  These  valetudinaria  were  always  attached  to 
the  winter  quarters,  and  those  generals  who  visited  the 
sick  and  wounded  are  applauded.97 


196  THE  INN  OF  REST 

We  have  already  seen  that  the  ancient  Mexicans  had 
hospitals  for  the  care  of  the  sick,  and  as  a  refuge  for 
disabled  soldiers,  institutions  which  may  have  fore- 
shadowed our  Chelsea  Hospital  and  Les  Invalides  at 
Paris. 

The  most  remarkable  instance  of  a  military  hospital 
was  one  in  Ireland.  The  palace  of  Emania  was  founded 
about  300  B.  C.  by  the  Princess  Macha  of  the  Golden 
Hair,  and  continued  to  be  the  chief  royal  residence  of 
Ulster  until  332  A.  D.,  when  it  was  destroyed.  To  this 
palace  were  attached  two  houses,— one  the  house  in 
which  the  Red  Branch  Knights  hung  up  their  arms  and 
trophies ;  the  other,  in  which  the  sick  were  cared  for  and 
the  wounded  healed ;  this  latter  was  called  by  the  expres- 
sive name,  Broin  Bearg.  The  House  of  Sorrow.98  The 
institution  of  The  House  of  Sorrow  spread  through  Ire- 
land under  the  influence  of  Christianity,  and  the  ancient 
laws  sanction  the  right  of  distress  to  provide  for  the 
sick  "a  physician,  food,  proper  bed-furniture,  and  a  pro- 
per house."99 

[8.]  Such  was  the  progress  made  by  some  of  the 
great  nations  in  the  noble  effort  to  ameliorate  the  condi- 
tion of  the  sick  and  suffering,  when,  towards  the  close 
of  the  fourth  century  after  Christ,  Christianity  inspired 
the  world  with  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity.  A  noble  Ro- 
man lady,  Fabiola,  devoted  her  princely  patrimony  to 
build,  in  a  salubrious  quarter  near  the  city,  a  house  for 
the  reception  of  the  sick  and  the  infirm  who  were  found 
homeless  and  without  shelter  in  the  streets.  This,  says 
St.  Jerome,  was  the  first  voacwo/zcZov.100  The  fame  of 
this  institution  spread  throughout  the  Roman  Empire, 
"from  the  Egyptians  and  the  Parthians  to  the  Isle  of 
Britain."  The  work  was  carried  on  by  St.  Basil,  who 
built  outside  the  walls  of  Csesarea  in  Cappadocia,  prob- 
ably on  the  site  of  an  earlier  hospital,101  the  massive 
pile  of  buildings  which,  says  St.  Gregory  Nazianzen, 
"rose  to  view  like  a  second  city,  the  abode  of  charity, 
the  treasury  into  which  the  rich  poured  of  their  wealth 
and  the  poor  of  their  poverty.  Here  disease  is  investi- 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  197 


gated  "(  ^^oao^etTot  )  and  sympathy  proved."  No  build- 
ing of  antiquity  seemed  to  him  to  equal  this  hospital, 
not  even  "Thebes  with  its  hundred  gates,  nor  the  walls 
of  Babylon,  not  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  nor  the  Colossus 
of  Rhodes,  nor  the  tomb  of  Mausoleus."  "My  brother's 
hospital,"  he  says,  "is  a  tabernacle  of  witness  to  the 
world,  like  unto  that  of  Moses."102 

St.  John  Chrysostom  found  at  least  one  hospital  al- 
ready existing  when  he  went  to  Constantinople,  and  he 
built  many  more  on  the  plan  of  the  Basileas.  We  may  form 
some  idea  of  the  number  of  hospitals  at  Alexandria  from 
a  law  of  Honorius  which  mentions  no  less  than  six  hun- 
dred nurses,  parabolani,103  who  were  placed  at  the  dis- 
posal of  the  bishop  for  the  nursing  of  the  sick  —  "ad  cur- 
anda  debilium  aegra  corpora." 

Noble  ladies  like  Fabiola  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
work  of  nursing  the  sick.  The  Empress  Placilla  visited 
the  sick  in  their  own  homes  and  in  the  public  hospitals, 
she  stood  at  the  bedside,  she  tasted  the  broth,  handed 
the  food,  washed  the  cups,  and  performed  other  offices 
with  her  own  hands,  such  as  the  meanest  servants  or- 
dinarily did.104  The  aged  Bishop  of  Carthage,  Deo- 
gratias,  having  sold  the  church-plate  to  ransom  the  cap- 
tive Christians,  lodged  them  in  two  large  churches,  and 
every  hour  by  night  and  day  he  visited  them,  with  the 
physicians,  and  went  from  bed  to  bed  to  know  of  what 
each  stood  most  in  need.105  In  the  great  plague  at 
Alexandria  (A.  D.  260-268)  many  of  the  brethren  nursed 
the  sick  in  the  height  of  the  disease;  they  saved  many 
by  their  care,  who  rose  from  their  beds  to  life,  while 
they  themselves  fell  struck  by  the  plague  unto  death; 
"They  saved  others,  themselves  they  could  not  save."108 
This  work  of  the  Christians  excited  the  emulation 
of  the  Emperor  Julian:  "These  impious  Galileans  give 
themselves  to  this  kind  of  humanity,"  and  although  he 
thought  their  motive  base,107  yet  he  orders  Arsacius 
to  "establish  abundance  of  hospitals  in  every  city,  that 
our  kindness  may  be  enjoyed  by  strangers,  not  only  of 
our  own  people  but  of  those  who  are  in  need."108 


198  THE  INN  OF  REST 

To  the  great  hospital  at  Csesarea  there  was  attacheH 
a  "house  of  separation"  for  the  lepers,  of  whose  wretched 
condition  St.  Gregory  of  Nyssa  gives  such  an  appalling 
account.  They  wandered  in  troops  over  Cappadocia  in 
search  of  food,  and  exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the  sea- 
sons. They  resembled  corpses  before  death.  Clothed  in 
rags,  supported  by  a  staff  fastened  with  a  string,  not  to 
the  hands,  which  had  been  eaten  away  by  disease,  but 
to  the  stumps  of  the  arms  which  were  left,  driven  from 
the  towns  and  the  assemblies  of  men,  tracked  as  hunters 
track  wild  beasts,  they  did  not  dare  even  to  approach 
the  wells  and  fountains  on  the  roadside  to  quench  their 
burning  thirst.  "Basil  it  was  who  persuaded  men  not  to 
scorn  them,  not  to  dishonor  Christ  the  Head  of  all  by 
their  inhumanity  towards  human  beings."10' 

Most  if  not  all  of  these  early  Christian  institutions 
were  hospices  as  well  as  hospitals — the  home  of  the  stran- 
ger no  less  than  the  home  of  the  sick.  It  is  interesting 
to  note  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  word  to  express  these 
new  buildings.  St.  Jerome  uses  a  Greek  word,  voaoKo^lav 
for  the  house  built  by  the  gentle  lady  who  her- 
self cared  for  the  sick  whom  she  received.  St.  Basil 
evidently  felt  a  difficulty  in  finding  a  name  for  his  in- 
stitution. In  one  letter  he  speaks  of  it  as  the  support  of  the 
poor,  TTToxoTpvteiov,™  in  another  as  a  place  of  lodg- 
ing, Karaywywv111  open  to  strangers  passing  through  the 
country,  and  to  those  who  need  (eepaneias)  peculiar 
treatment  by  reason  of  the  state  of  their  health;  while 
Sozomen  falls  back  upon  its  popular  name,  Basileas, 
"that  most  famous  lodging  for  the  poor  founded  by  Basil, 
from  whom  it  received  the  appellation  which  it  still  re- 
tains."112 It  was  reserved  for  later  times  to  take  one 
of  the  most  sacred  of  ancient  names,  "hospitality,"  and 
inspiring  it  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity  to  enshrine  it 
for  future  ages  in  the  home  which  is  open  to  all  who  are 
suffering  from  sickness  and  from  pain:  "Go  out  into  the 
streets  and  lanes  of  the  city,  and  bring  in  hither  the  poor, 
and  the  maimed,  and  the  halt,  and  the  blind,*  *  *  *that 
my  house  may  be  filled." 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  199 

Thus  we  see  that  the  glory  of  Christianity  does  not 
lie  in  having  originated  the  idea  of  hospitals,  but  in  hav- 
ing seized  it,  like  the  runners  the  torch  in  the  ancient 
games,  and  carried  it  forward  with  brighter  flame  and 
more  intense  enthusiasm.  The  fame  of  Fabiola  and  St. 
Basil  has  been  immortalized  by  St.  Jerome  and  the  Greg- 
orys; the  edict  of  Asoka  is  graven  with  a  pen  of  iron  in 
the  rock,  a  living  witness  to  the  noble  thoughts  of  his 
kingly  mind;  the  House  of  Sorrow,  which  was  built 
within  the  ancient  rath  that  exists  to  this  day,  speaks  of 
the  tenderness  of  the  Princess  Macha;  but  no  trace  re- 
mains of  the  names  and  titles  of  the  men  and  women  who 
built  the  solitary  hospital  on  the  sea-shore  in  the  Piraeus, 
who  founded  the  house-of-separation  for  the  lepers  in 
Judaea,  and  the  home  of  the  disabled  soldiers  in  Mexico; 
or  of  those,  even  more  illustrious,  who  in  ancient  Egypt 
conceived  the  idea  of  the  physicians  paid  by  the  state  to 
tend  the  poor — an  idea  which  contains  the  germ  that  has 
borne  fruit  in  the  vast  network  of  hospitals  which  are 
rapidly  spreading  over  the  continents  of  Europe  and 
America.  Their  names  may  be  forgotten,  but  their  deeds 
are  immortal;  they  have  joined 

"That  choir  invisible, 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world." 

A  Jewish  legend,  preserved  in  the  Haggadah,  tells  us 
that  Abraham  wore  upon  his  breast  a  jewel  "whose  light 
raised  those  who  were  bowed  down  and  healed  the  sick" ; 
and  that  when  he  died,  it  was  placed  in  heaven  where  it 
shone  among  the  stars.  Countless  as  the  stars  of  heaven 
and  as  the  sand  on  the  sea-shore  are  the  men  and  women 
of  all  countries  and  of  all  creeds  who  have  worn  next 
their  hearts  the  patriarch's  jewel  of  light. 

EXPLANATORY  NOTES 

(1.)  Demaisons,  Des  Asiles  d'Alienes  en  Espagne,  Paris, 
1859.  W.  E.  H.  Lecky,  Hist,  of  European  Morals,  ii.  85  sq. 

(2.)     Cicero,  Tusc.  Dis.,  iii.  1.     Pliny,  Nat.  Hist,  xxix.  l. 

(3.)     Emp.  Julian  contr.     Christ. 

(4.)     yEsch,  Prometheus,  467  sq. 

(5.)     Herod,  i.  197,  iii.  129.     Strabp,  xvi.  c.  1. 

(6.)  H.  F.  Talbot,  Assyrian  Talismans  and  Exorcisms.  Cf. 
St  Matthew,  xii.  45. 


200  THE  INN  OF  REST 


(7.)     Pliny,  Nat.  Hist,  vii.  56. 


(8.)     Od.,  iv.  229. 
(9.)     ---• 


Melanges  Egypt.    La  Medicine  des  Anciens  Egyptiens. 

(10.)     Ibid. 

(11.)  Herod.,  ii.  84.  See  Sir  G.  Wilkinson's  valuable  note, 
also  Ancient  Egyptians,  iii.  388-397. 

(12.)  A  skeleton  was  found  at  Quito  with  false  teeth  secured 
with  gold-wire. — Bollaert,  Antiquities  of  N.  Granada,  p.  83. 

(13.)     Manetho,  quoted  in  Brugsch,  Histoire  d'Egypte. 

(14.)  Translated  by  Brugsch,  Notice  raisonne  d'un  Traite 
medical  datant  du  xivme  Siecle  avant  notre  ere;  and  Chabas, 
Melanges  Egypt,  i. 

(15.)     Chabas,  i.  79. 

(16.)     Diod.  Sic.,  i.  82. 

(17.)     Pol.  iii.  11. 

(18.)     Nat.  Hist.,  xxix.  1. 

(19.)     Brugsch,  Hist.  d'Egypte,  c.  ix. 

(20.)     Sir.  G.  Wilkinson  in  Herod.,   loc.  cit. 

(21.)     Diod.,  i.  82. 

(22.)     Herod.,  ii.  84. 

(23.)     Pliny,  xix.  5. 

(24.)  Wilkinson  gives  some  of  these  ex  votos  in  vol.  iii.  p. 
395 

(25.)     Friedlander,  iv.  239. 

(26.)     Brugsch,  Hist.  d'Egypte,  c.  ix.,  Berlin,  1859. 

(27.)     Herod.,  iii.  1. 

(28.)     Herod.,  iii.  131,  132. 

(29.)     Jer.  xlyi.  11. 

(30.)     Friedlander,  lib.  ii.  c.  4. 

(31.)  Chabas,  Papyrus  Hierogl.,  p.  55.  For  some  time  in 
England  there  were  two  ill-omened  days  in  each  month  called 
"Egyptian  days,"  supposed  to  be  prescribed  by  the  Egyptians 
as  unwholesome  for  bleeding.  (Dean  Stanley's  Westminster 
Abbey,  p.  53.  n.) 

(32.)     Herod.,  iii.  131. 

(33.)     Strabo,  vi.  1,  13. 

(34.)  Aristotle,  in  Grote's  History  of  Greece,  iii.  342-344,  ed. 
1862.  Ouvres  d'Hippocrate,  Introd.  pp.  22,  23,  Littre. 

(35.)  Rep.,  iii.  406,  ed.  Jowett  Cf.  the  Jewish  saying,  "Death 
is  better  than  a  continual  sickness." — Ecclus,  xxx.  17. 

(36.)     Nat.  Hist,  xxix.  2,  xxvi.  6. 

(37.)     Littre,  Ouvres  d'Hippocrate,  introd. 
Strabo,  xiv.  ii.  19.  Cf.  viii.  vi.  15. 
Dion  Cassius,  xxxviii.  18. 

C.  Muller,  The  Dorians,   i.   114.     The   Rhodians    spoke 
Doric  in  the  time  of  Tiberius. — Sueton.,  Tib.,  56. 

(41.)  "Medicos  dorice  loquentes." — Meineke,  Frag.  Com. 
Grace.,  ii.  249. 

(42.)     C.  Muller,  on  the  Doric  Dialect,  ii.  439. 

(43.)     Xen.,  Mem.,  iv.  ii.  5. 

(44.)     Liddell  and  Scott,  Lex. 

(45.)     Gorg.,  456. 

(46.)     Ibid. 

(47.)     Laws.,  857.  , 

(48.)     Pol.,  iv.  2. 

(49.)     Laws.,  720. 

(50.)     Rep.,  405. 

(51.)     Cf.  Hist  of  Bel  and  the  Dragon,  c.  i. 

(52.)     Aristophanes,  Plautus. 


PRE-CHRISTIAN  HOSPITALS  201 

(53.)  Meineke.  Comic.  Grace.  Frag.  Qvp-  ii.  "Hujus  noscpmei 
publica  fortasse  auctoritate  constituti,  nullus  praeterea  scriptor 
memoriam  servavit"  (vol.  ii.  p.  239). 

(54.)  Boeckh,  Public  Economy  of  Athens,  i.  160,  London, 
1828. 

(55.)  T.  A.  Wise,  Review  of  the  History  of  Medicine,  vol.  i., 
London,  1867. 

(56.)     India,  xv.  i.  36. 

(57.)     Edict.  II. 

(58.)     Spiers,  Ancient  India,  p.  319. 

(59.)  Fa-Hian's  Travels  from  China  to  India,  Beal's  transl., 
p.  107. 

(60.)  Memoires  sur  les  Contrees  Occidentales,  par  Hiouen- 
Thsang,  en  A.  D.  648,  translated  by  Stanislas  Julien,  ii.  190,  231; 
iii.  174,  215.  Paris,  1857. 

(61.)  Hamilton's  East  India  Gazetteer.  Surat  is  a  very  an- 
cient town,  for  it  is  mentioned  in  the  Ramayana.  Scavoneur, 
Voyages,  ii.  489. 

(62.)     Cunningham's  Archl.  Survey  of  India,  i.  125. 

(63.)     Catena  of  Buddhist  Scriptures,  by  Rev.  S.  Beal,  p.  15. 

(64.)     Romantic  History  of  Buddha,  Beal,  p.  143. 

(65.)     Prescott,  History  of  Conquest  of  Mexico,  i.  40. 

(66.)     Ibid. 

(67.)     Kingsborough,  Antiquities  of  Mexico,  ix.  179. 

(68.)  Exod.  xv.  26.  Carmoly  translates,  "L'Eternal  est  le 
medecin  du  peuple." — Histoire  des  Medecins  Juifs,  Bruxelles, 
1844. 

(69.)     Ecclus.  xxxviii.  1. 

(70.)  R.  J.  Wunderbar,  Biblisch-Talmudische  Medicin,  Leip- 
zig, 1865. 

(71.)  Exod.  xxx.  21.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  skill  with 
which  the  limbs  of  the  Egyptian  mummies  are  bound. 

(72.)     Ecclus.  xxxviii,  4,  7,  8. 

(73.)     Vita,  37,    tf  iorptwy,  v  ed.  Haverc. 

(74.)     Pearson,  Creed,  iv.  226  n. 

(75.)     Stephen's  Eccl.  Biog.,  p.  64. 

(76.)  Rev.  A.  L.  Green's  letter  to  "Jewish  World,"  October, 
1875. 

(77.)  In  Exod.  xxi.  9,  the  Ixx.  reads  tarpeia.  May  not  this 
word  which,  as  v/e  have  already  seen,  occurs  in  Plato,  have 
reference  to  dispensaries,  similar  to  those  with  which  the  Sev- 
enty were  familiar  in  Alexandria? 

(78.)     Ps.  Ixxxviii. 

(79.)     Ecclus.  vii.  35. 

(80.)     Talmud. 

(81.)  Nat.  Hist.,  xxix.  The  oculists,  whose  names  we  find  on 
their  seals,  were  most  of  them  of  Greek  origin. — Teuffel,  Hist. 
Rom.  Lit,  i.  45. 

(82.)     Nat.  Hist,  xxix.  6. 

(83.)     Code,  vii.  7,  1,  5. 

(84.)     Martial. 

(85.)     Com.  in  Hipp.  iv.  9,  quoted  by  Friedlander. 

(86.)     Friedlander,  iv.  235-241. 

(87.)     Tacitus,  Hist,  iv.  81. 

(88.)  A  title  which  St.  Jerome  applies  to  Christ,  Horn,  in 
St.  Luc.,  xiii. 

(89.)  Dumas,  Des  Secours  Publics  en  usage  chez  les  An- 
ciens,  p.  136,  Paris,  1813. 

(90.)     Lib.  Ixv.  27,  28. 


202  THE  INN  OF  REST 

(91.)  The  sacred  character  is  preserved  in  its  name  of  H-ieron, 
the  sanctuary;  and  the  village  is  called  Koroni,  evidently  from 
Koronis,  the  mother  of  Asclepius. 

(92.)  Pausanias,  ii.  27.  Champagny,  Les  Antonins,  torn.  ii. 
p.  183. 

(93.)     Rep.,  iii.  406. 

(94.)  Diod.,  i.  82.  In  the  smaller  temple  at  Aboo  Simbel,  in 
Nubia,  a  surgeon  is  seen  dressing  a  wound  in  the  foot  of  a  sol- 
dier.— Edwards,  A  Thousand  Miles  up  the  Nile,  p.  438. 

(95.)     Tacitus,  Germ.,  7. 

(96.)     Fl.  Vegetius,  de  re  Milit,  ii.  10. 

(97.)     Dumas,  Des  Secours  Publics,  iv.  1. 

(98.)  Sir.  W.  Wilde,  Note  on  Census  for  Ireland,  Fart  iii., 
Parl.  Papers,  1854,  vol.  Iviii. 

(99.)     Sanchus  Mor,  p.  123,  Dublin,  Thorn,  1865. 

(100.)     Ep.  77,  c.  6  ("prima  omnium  instituit")- 

(101.)     See  Ep.  94,  ad  Heliam. 

(102.)     Orat.  20,  ed.  Colon. 

(103.)  Cod.  Just,  i,  3,  18.  Strictly  speaking,  nurses  in  in- 
fectious diseases,  for  they  cast  themselves  into  hazard  of  their 
lives  with  a  recklessness  which  is  divine. 

(104.)     Theod.,  Hist.  Eccl.  v.  18. 

(105.)     Victor.  Utic.,  De  Pers.    Vand. 

(106.)  Euseb.,  Hist.  Eccl.,  vii.  22.  Cave,  Primitive  Chris- 
tianity, III.  ii.  390. 

(107.)     Frag.  305,  Rheinwald,  Kirchliche  Archaologie. 

(108.)     Epist,  49. 

(109.)  A.  Tollemer,  Des  Origines  de  la  Charite  Catholique, 
Paris,  1863.  Martin-Doisy,  Historic  de  la  Charite,  Paris,  1848. 

(110.)     Ep.  176. 

(111.)     Ep.  94. 

(112.)    Hist.  Eccl.,  vi.  34, 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR 

Anna  H.  Drury 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR. 

I. 

|HE  great  surgeon's  holiday  was  nearly  over.  A 
little  more  than  three  weeks  had  been  spent  in 
Scotland,  and  at  the  urgent  entreaty  of  his  old- 
est friend,  Colonel  Tyrwhitt,  he  stopped  on  his 
way  home  to  spend  three  days  with  him  in  Midlandshire. 
Three  days,  and  no  more.  Those  who  knew  Everard 
Luttrell  understood  what  that  meant.  He  was  as  de- 
cided in  his  holiday  movements  as  in  the  treatment  of 
his  patients,  sometimes  to  their  extreme  dissatisfaction. 
For  one  thing,  nobody  could  be  certain  when  Everard 
Luttrell  would  take  his  holiday.  It  was  no  use  calcu- 
lating on  its  being  the  height  of  the  season,  when  the 
great  men  are  so  overwhelmed  with  work  that  they  have 
hardly  time  to  live.  Sometimes  he  went  away  in  May, 
sometimes  in  June,  sometimes  when  people  were  just 
settling  down  in  town  again  for  the  winter.  And  it  was 
no  use  pleading  urgency,  or  hinting  at  unlimited  remun- 
eration. If  the  patient's  need  did  not  move  him,  no 
cheque  would  be  able  to  prevail.  As  he  once  observed, 
"They  would  manage  without  me  if  I  were  dead  and 
buried,  and  they  must  manage  while  I  am  away.  My 
own  case  is  the  one  I  have  to  think  of  now." 

Only  a  very  few  intimate  friends — one,  his  trusted 
medical  adviser — knew  what  there  was  in  his  own  case  to 
require  exceptional  care.  An  active,  wiry  man  of  fifty- 
three,  he  rarely  had  a  day's  illness ;  but  he  was  liable  to 
fits  of  dangerous  depression,  whose  premonitory  symp- 
toms, he  had  learned  to  know  too  well,  and  which,  with 
all  his  watchfulness,  would  sometimes  take  him  by  sur- 
prise. When  ordinary  measures  would  not  suffice,  he 
applied  the  one  sure  remedy,  and  gave  himself  leave  of 


206  THE  INN  OF  REST 

absence  for  a  month.  Sport  of  every  kind  was  his  de- 
light, and  the  more  out-of-door  exercise  he  could  ob- 
tain, the  quicker,  as  a  rule,  came  the  convalescence.  The 
amount  of  suffering  he  bore  during  the  attack,  while  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  amusement,  was  known  only  to 
himself. 

His  Highland  visit  to  a  grateful  patient's  moor  had 
been  a  success ;  and  he  had  not  been  idle  during  the  two 
days  just  passed  at  his  friend  Colonel  Tyrwhitt's  place, 
the  Combe. 

The  September  weather  was  perfect,  and  the  visitor's 
eye  and  hand  had  been  in  excellent  form.  To  his  friend's 
wife  and  daughters — the  eldest  of  the  three  girls  was  his 
godchild — he  had  been  most  agreeable,  entering  with  in- 
terest into  their  pursuits,  and  charming  them  by  his  con- 
versation; and  all  were  of  the  same  mind  in  wishing  he 
would  prolong  his  stay.  But  the  Colonel  forbade  re- 
monstrance. If  Luttrell  said  he  must  go,  go  he  would; 
and  worrying  him  about  it  might  prevent  his  ever  com- 
ing again. 

He  had  done  his  best,  both  for  his  visitor  and  his 
neighbors,  giving  up  the  third  day  to  a  "big  shoot"  on 
the  estate  of  a  brother  squire,  who  was  anxious  to  do 
honor  to  the  occasion,  and  gathered  a  party  on  purpose. 
The  sport  had  been  good  during  the  morning,  and  the 
distinguished  guest  sustained  his  reputation,  not  only 
with  the  birds  before  luncheon,  but  at  the  luncheon 
itself,  which  the  ladies  from  Knighton  Hall  came  to 
join.  Never  had  the  Colonel,  who  watched  him  anx- 
iously, heard  him  converse  more  brilliantly,  or  tell  better 
anecdotes,  keeping  every  one  round  him  amused ;  the  one 
thing  wanting  was  the  appetite  due  after  his  morning's 
work.  Not  a  bite  did  he  put  into  his  own  mouth,  while 
assiduously  supplying  others.  Something  was  wrong,  the 
Colonel  feared ;  a  fit  of  depression  was  coming  on ;  and 
his  fears  were  too  well  grounded. 

Mr.  Knighton's  plan  was  that  after  luncheon  the  sports- 
men should  proceed  to  a  distant  part  of  his  property, 
where  still  better  shooting  was  always  to  be  had ;  and  the 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  207 

arrangements  were  being  made  when  Everard  drew  his 
friend  aside. 

"I  have  had  enough  of  this,  Tyrwhitt.  Make  my  ex- 
cuses to  Mr.  Knighton.  I  am  going  for  a  tramp  by  my- 
self." 

"Just  as  you  like,  old  fellow,"  said  the  Colonel,  more 
cheerfully  than  he  felt;  "I'll  settle  all  that.  But,  I  say, 
look  here — if  you  feel  overdone,  why  not  slip  home  and 
let  my  wife  make  you  comfortable?  She  knows  what  a 
fellow  wants  when  he  is  beat — no  one  better — " 

"I  am  sure  of  it ;  but  what  I  want  she  cannot  give  me. 
When  I  am  fit  to  talk  to  her,  I'll  find  my  way  to  your 
house.  Yes,  thanks,  I  know  my  bearings,  and  shall  keep 
out  of  the  way.  You  can  tell  me  all  about  it  at  dinner." 

He  was  gone  without  another  word,  and  Colonel  Tyr- 
whitt was  staring  after  him  with  so  perplexed  a  look  in 
his  face  that  one  of  the  young  Knightons  came  up  to  ask 
if  anything  was  the  matter. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Ronald,  I  am  not  happy  in  my  mind 
about  my  friend  Luttrell.  He  is  not  well,  and  I  fancy 
he  has  done  too  much  this  morning;  but  those  medical 
bigwigs  are  so  despotic,  I  could  do  nothing  with  him. 
He  is  bent  on  walking  off  his  indisposition,  whatever  it 
is ;  but  I  hate  his  being  alone  somehow." 

"All  right,  Colonel;  I'll  shadow  him — stalk  him  as  he 
did  the  stag  he  told  us  of.  He  shall  not  see  me  unless 
I  have  to  be  useful,  and  then  I  shall  only  be  rabbiting, 
you  know.  I'll  take  my  gun  as  a  proof." 

"Well,  if  you  can,  without  his  finding  it  out,  I  shall  be 
much  obliged  to  you,  my  boy ;  but  you  will  be  losing  all 
the  afternoon.  And  the  ladies — I  understood  some  of 
them  meant  to  walk  with  us  and  see  the  fun — what  will 
they  say  to  your  not  being  in  attendance?" 

"Never  mind  about  what  they  say.  The  only  one  I 
should  care  to  attend  upon  is  not  here,  and  you  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  impudent  young  dog ! 
We  hear  all  sorts  of  stories  about  you  at  the  Combe,  and 
the  sooner  they  are  contradicted,  the  better  for  your 


208  THE  INN  OF  REST 

credit.  If  you  succeed  in  stalking  Luttrell — and,  mind 
you,  he'll  never  forgive  you  if  he  finds  you  out,  or  me 
either — you  may  as  well  come  and  meet  him  at  dinner. 
He  goes  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  the  young  man  heartily,  and 
the  glow  on  his  cheeks  testified  to  his  truth.  If  the 
valued  guest  had  suddenly  felt  better,  and  come  back  to 
rejoin  the  party,  it  is  to  be  feared  the  young  gentleman 
would  have  felt  rather  disappointed. 

There  was  little  difficulty  in  the  pursuit  at  first.  Ever- 
ard  Luttrell  had  struck  across  the  open,  evidently  mak- 
ing for  a  wooded  hill  beyond;  and  as  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  be  followed,  he  never  looked  back. 
The  pace,  Ronald  thought,  was  surprising  for  a  Londoner 
out  of  condition ;  he  had  to  do  all  he  knew  to  keep  him  in 
sight;  but  when  the  wood  had  been  gained  by  the  pur- 
sued, the  pursuer  changed  his  tactics. 

"He  seems  to  know  the  country — means,  perhaps,  to 
rest  a  bit  in  the  wood.  It  won't  do  to  run  up  against 
him  there.  I  must  keep  outside,  and  view  him  when  he 
breaks  cover.  He  means  to  take  the  round  by  the  lane 
to  the  village ;  I  suppose.  A  tidy  spin  for  a  doctor  out  of 
sorts.  I  wonder  if  he  gives  this  prescription,  as  a  rule, 
to  seedy  patients?  It  would  be  a  splendid  cure  for  the 
gout!" 

It  was  well  for  all  concerned  that  he  refrained  from 
investigating  the  wood.  Everard  had  entered  it  for  the 
sake  of  solitude  and  silence ;  and  had  he  caught  sight  of 
any  one  just  then,  he  would  have  hurried  on  in  his  fever- 
ish impatience  till  he  actually  dropped  from  exhaustion. 
He  made  his  way  along  a  track  that  led  to  a  clearing  in 
the  heart  of  the  wood,  and  there  sat  down  on  a  log, 
with  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  allowed  the  wave  of  his 
soul's  anguish  to  roll  over  him  unresisted. 

The  first  phase  was  the  easiest  to  bear ;  it  was  a  rush 
of  tender  memories  that  brought  with  it  the  relief  of 
tears.  No  one  was  near  to  see  them  or  to  witness  the 
deep  sobs  that  heaved  his  breast,  and  he  gave  way  the 
rather  that  he  knew  the  softening  would  not  last.  The 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  209 

torment  of  these  dark  hours  was  in  the  thoughts  he  ab- 
horred, but  could  not  put  aside.  He  knew  they  were 
coming — felt  their  hot  breath,  so  to  speak,  on  his  spirit, 
and  braced  himself,  as  he  had  often  before,  to  wrestle 
until  they  were  overcome — as  a  man  must  who  realizes 
the  danger  of  defeat.  And  wrestle  he  did  in  the  quiet 
shade  of  the  trees,  till  he  was  shaken  and  trembling  all 
over — wiping  the  dew  from  his  forehead,  and  glad  that 
his  flask  had  not  been  left  behind  with  his  gun. 

It  was  over,  he  knew,  for  the  time,  and  when  he  had 
sufficiently  recovered  he  proceeded  on  his  walk,  as  young 
Knighton  had  conjectured.  He  was  one  who  never  for- 
got his  way,  and  though  he  had  not  been  in  that  part 
lately,  there  had  been  few  alterations,  and  he  went  on 
without  pause  or  check,  across  country  towards  a  wind- 
ing road,  or  rather  lane,  by  which  he  knew  he  should 
reach  the  village.  The  church  tower  was  in  sight  as  he 
descended  the  hill,  and  the  nearest  lodge  of  the  Combe 
was  about  a  mile  beyond ;  but  he  had  had  time  to  realize 
that  it  was  a  long  round  altogether  before  his  solitude 
was  broken  upon  by  an  unexpected  meeting. 

A  turn  of  the  endless  lane  showed  him  the  light  figure 
of  his  god-daughter,  Cecile  Tyrwhitt,  mounted  on  a  lively 
little  chestnut  mare,  and  followed  by  a  very  small  boy 
on  an  old  grey  pony.  The  meeting  was  equally  unex- 
pected on  her  part,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  joy  she 
drew  in  her  rein. 

"This  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  indeed !  But  why  are 
you  alone,  godpapa?  Nothing  the  matter  I  hope?" 

He  reassured  her  with  a  brief  explanation,  and  turned 
to  walk  by  her  side. 

"I  might  inquire  why  you  did  not  come  to  the  luncheon. 
I  heard  you  asked  for." 

"Who  asked  for  me?"    The  question  was  sharply  put. 
"A  young  lady — Miss  Bellamy  I  think  her  name  was, 
who  came  with  Mrs.  Knighton's  party,  and  evidently  ex- 
pected to  meet  you  there." 

"I  dare  say;  but  there  were  very  good  reasons  why 
she  did  not.  Would  you  mind  walking  on  with  me 


210  THE  INN  OF  REST 

while  Jack  rides  into  the  village  to  leave  a  basket  for  me 
with  a  friend?  I  was  going  there  myself,  but  I  would 
much  rather  have  a  talk  with  you.  It  is  what  I  have 
longed  for  ever  since  you  came." 

"I'm  at  your  service,  my  dear.  Give  your  orders,  and 
I  will  be  Jack's  deputy  in  his  absence." 

"Mother  does  not  like  me  to  ride  quite  alone,"  Cecile 
explained,  as  her  small  escort  rode  away;  "unless  I  am 
on  the  old  pony,  and  I  very  much  prefer  Pamela,  though 
she  does  dance  and  prance  sometimes.  In  the  shooting- 
season  there  is  no  one  available  but  Jack,  and  I  believe 
in  his  heart  he  would  rather  be  with  the  shooters.  You 
had  good  sport,  I  hope?" 

"Excellent." 

"And  you  admired  Maud  Bellamy?  All  the  gentle- 
men do." 

"So  I  should  suppose,  for  they  seemed  to  gather 
round  her  directly." 

"I  know — I  know.  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  grievous 
confession.  We  were  friends  once-^-now  I  hate  her!" 

'"Not  because  she  is  admired?" 

"No;  I  could  admire  her  myself  if  she  would  not  al- 
ways make  me  feel  miserable  and  cross  and  resentful; 
so  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  say  I  would  not  go  any- 
where to  meet  her.  Now,  look  here — should  you  care  to 
meet  a  person,  passing  as  your  friend,  who  always  pre- 
tended to  misunderstand  what  you  said,  making  out  that 
it  was  something  quite  different,  and  extremely  foolish — 
who  never  let  you  enjoy  a  talk  with  any  one  you  liked, 
but  contrived  to  strike  in  and  draw*  him  away — who 
could  not  be  contented  without  being,  not  only  the  first, 
but  the  only  person  attended  to  and  thought  of,  and  who 
wouldn't  scruple  to  say  anything,  true  or  untrue,  that 
would  move  a  hindrance  out  of  her  way?  I  am  sure 
you  would  not;  and  neither  do  I." 

He  looked  up  at  her  rather  sadly.  Only  seventeen, 
with  a  face  like  a  rose  and  giving  out  such  bitterness! 
That  something  was  wrong  with  her,  he  had  divined 
from  the  first ;  her  spirits  had  struck  him  as  rather  forced 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  211 

and  he  had  noticed  an  anxious  watching  in  the  mother's 
eyes.  And  now  he  felt  convinced  there  was  more  to 
come,  which  he  must  not  check  by  any  reproving  word. 

He  had  made  a  pet  of  her  from  her  childhood.  Though 
rarely  meeting,  his  name  had  from  the  first  been  associ- 
ated in  her  mind  with  delightful  surprises,  charming 
birthday  presents,  amusing  letters  and  kind  interest  in 
all  her  being,  doing,  and  suffering.  It  was  natural,  there- 
fore, that  where  the  last  was  concerned  she  should  tell 
him  what  she  would  have  allowed  no  one  to  ask.  But 
he  was  not  prepared  for  her  next  piece  of  confidence. 

"I  want  to  ask  your  advice  and  help.  Mother  said  I 
might,  and  that  I  could  not  have  a  safer  adviser.  You 
see  she  knows  nothing  about  it  herself,  because  in  her 
young  days  things  were  different." 

"Not  so  different  as  you  young  people  are  apt  to  sup- 
pose, Cecile." 

"Well,  everybody  says  that  the  changes  in  the  last 
twenty  years  have  been  very  great.  I  mean,  about  what 
women  may  do,  and  learn,  and  all  that.  You  have  no 
old  world  prejudices  about  women,  have  you?"  >  '..•£*••• 

"My  prejudices,  such  as  they  are,  are  mostly  in  their 
favor — especially  at  sweet  seventeen.  What  do  you  want 
to  do?" 

"I  want  to  be  a  nurse.  Stop — don't  begin  by  telling 
me  I  have  duties  at  home.  Father  and  mother  will  object 
to  nothing  that  you  approve,  and  they  both  say  they 
only  want  me  to  be  happy.  Now,  I  am  not  happy,  and 
I  am  determined  not  to  pretend  that  I  am.  About  nurs- 
ing I  have  heard  a  great  deal  from  a  particular  friend  of 
mine  living  here,  who  went  through  exams  without  end, 
and  got  certificates,  and  was  regularly  employed  in  Lon- 
don. She  and  her  husband — he  is  our  doctor — have  in- 
valids sometimes  to  board  with  them,  whom  nobody  else 
can  manage ;  and  it  is  wonderful  what  she  does  with  dif- 
ficult cases.'* 

"I  can  quite  believe  it.  Some  of  our  best  nurses  are 
ladies." 

"Then  being  a  lady  you  do  not  consider  an  objection?" 


212  THE  INN  OF  REST 

"On  the  contrary;  given  the  other  qualifications,  the 
better  the  lady  the  better  the  nurse.  You  want  my  as- 
sistance in  becoming  one — your  parents'  approval  taken 
for  granted?" 

"Yes,  indeed  I  do.    It  will  be  so  kind !" 

"Then  I  shall  begin  with  a  piece  of  advice,  more  im- 
portant than  you  suppose." 

"Stop  one  minute.  I  know  what  it  is.  You  want  me 
to  think  it  well  over,  and  make  sure  I  can  put  up  with 
sharp  words  from  superiors,  and  being  set  to  do  hard 
work,  cleaning  and  scrubbing  and  all  that.  I  assure  you, 
my  friend's  own  experience  is  like  a  manual.  She  has 
made  me  see  the  very  worst  side  of  a  nurse's  life,  and 
it  has  not  changed  my  mind  in  the  least." 

"So  much  the  better  for  your  purpose,  but  she  has  not 
taught  you  one  thing — to  wait  till  you  have  heard  the 
doctor  speak  before  you  answer  him.     You  may  have 
gone  through  all  you  tell  me,  and  more,  and  yet  be  un- 
fit for  a  nurse,  if  part  of  your  equipment  is — a  grievance. 
Let  nothing  induce  you  to  suppose  that  change  of  scene, 
change  of  occupation,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  will  stop 
the   mischief.     A   nurse's   cheerfulness   is   part   of  •  her 
stock-in-trade,  and,  like  other  stock,  ought  to  be  genuine ; 
and  the  cheerfulness  that  is  only  put  on  with  your  cap 
and  apron  will  be  as  great  a  sham  as  your  skill  would  be 
under  the  same  circumstances.    Here  you  are,  dear  child, 
with  these  thorns  in  your  heart — the  friend  who  is  play- 
ing you  false — the   estrangement  from   somebody  that 
she  has  brought  about,  the  sense  of  being  laughed  at,  or 
whatever  the  annoyance  may  be;  and  you  think  that 
when  you  are  away  from  home  they  will  not  rankle  as 
they  do  now.    You  are  quite  mistaken.    There  are  times, 
again  and  again,  when  a  trained  nurse  has  to  fall  back 
upon  her  own  thoughts  for  solace  and  occupation  while 
remaining  perfectly  still.     If   such   thoughts   as   those 
keep  her  company  then  her  nerves   must  suffer,   and 
nerves  mean  temper.    To  feel  your  temper  failing  you 

is  bad  enough  in  our  profession.    It  is  ten  times  worse 

in  a  nurse's." 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  213 

His  tone  impressed  her  more  than  his  words;  it 
brought  back  a  vague  recollection  of  something  sad  hav- 
ing happened  to  him  years  ago,  when  she  was  supposed 
to  hear  nothing.  A  longing  to  cheer  his  spirits  made  her 
press  the  hand  he  had  laid  on  the  pommel  of  her  saddle. 

"I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  my  dear  godfather,  that  you 
have  had  no  experience  of  that  kind." 

"God  forbid,  my  dear,"  was  his  answer,  "that  any  ex- 
perience of  yours  should  ever  be  like  mine !"  Then,  with 
a  quick  change  of  voice — "Pull  up,  Cecile!  Your  pony 
is  limping.  A  stone  in  her  shoe  most  likely.  This  road- 
mending  plays  sad  tricks  with  the  horses." 

He  picked  up  a  good-sized  pebble  as  he  spoke,  and 
gently  stroking  down  the  slender  leg  took  the  hoof  in 
his  hand,  Cecile  saying  soft  things  to  her  pet  the  while, 
telling  her  how  honored  she  ought  to  be  at  having  such 
first-rate  attendance.  A  dexterous  tap  or  two  had  just 
remedied  the  evil,  when  the  report  of  a  gun  behind  the 
hedge  made  the  nervous  creature  start  in  terror,  lash  out 
wildly,  and  bound  forward  several  yards  before  her  rider 
could  recover  control  of  the  bridle.  In  fact,  if  she  had  not 
been  a  good  horsewoman,  she  must  have  been  thrown. 
As  it  was,  she  did  not  know  what  had  happened  till  she 
had  quieted  and  turned  Pamela  around,  and  then  saw 
Everard  Luttrell  lying  motionless  on  his  face. 

The  shriek  that  burst  from  her  lips  was  heard  by  two 
persons.  Jack,  having  accomplished  his  errand,  came 
cantering  up  in  consternation ;  and  bursting  through  the 
hedge,  his  gun  in  one  hand  and  a  rabbit  in  the  other,  Ron- 
ald Knighton  sprang  into  the  lane. 

"Cecile!    My  darling!    What  is  it?    Are  you  hurt?" 

He  had  caught  the  rein,  and  his  arm  was  round  her  as 
she  slipped  from  her  saddle. 

"Oh,  no,  no — but  he  is!  Look  there!  Oh,  what  shall 
we  do?" 

However  great  his  consternation,  he  did  not  lose  his 
presence  of  mind.  The  hunting-field  had  taught  him 
something  about  accidents,  and  a  brief  inspection  of  the 


214  THE   INN   OF   REST 

injured  man  convinced  him  that  the  case  required  both 
skill  and  care.  The  least  jolt  in  moving  him  might  be  of 
serious  consequence.  Dr.  Cameron's  was  the  nearest 
house,  and  Jack  must  go  there  at  once  for  help.  If  the 
doctor  was  out,  he  must  ride  after  him;  but  meanwhile 
the  patient  must  be  carried  to  his  house.  Mrs.  Cameron 
would  know  what  was  required ;  she  was  nearly  as  good 
a  doctor  as  her  husband. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  my  darling,"  he  went  on,  as  poor 
Cecile,  sick  and  faint,  sat  down  on  the  ground,  just  cap- 
able of  holding  Pamela's  bridle,  but  about  as  unfit  for  a 
nurse's  duties  as  Pamela  herself.  "He  has  had  a  nasty 
kick,  but  men  get  those  constantly  without  being  much 
the  worse  in  the  end." 

It  was  a  bold  assertion,  but  ignorance  is  not  critical. 
Cecile  was  still  at  the  innocent  stage  of  belief  in  the 
superior  knowledge  of  man;  and  her  hope  revived, 
though  not  her  self-respect. 

"I  had  just  been  telling  him  I  wanted  to  be  a  nurse.  I 
shall  never  dare  to  say  so  again  after  this." 

"Of  course  not ;  your  duties  lie  in  a  different  direction, 
as  I  shall  be  happy  to  point  out.  It  is  I  who  have  to  re- 
proach myself  for  my  unlucky  shot." 

And  while  doing  all  he  could  venture  for  the  uncon- 
scious sufferer,  he  explained  in  a  few  words  how  he  had 
been  tracking  him  at  her  father's  request,  and  had  shot 
the  rabbit  by  way  of  excuse  should  he  have  been  acci- 
dently  discovered. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  with  him ;  I  shall  hate  the 
sight  of  my  gun  if  it  has  really  brought  you  sorrow." 

"Oh,  I  hope — I  must  hope,  or  I  should  hate  poor  Pam- 
ela.   It  was  no  fault  of  yours ;  you — you  are  always  kind." 
It  was  a  strange  time  for  explanrt:'  terrible  pos- 

sibility in  front,  and  at  the  best,  a  lact  whose  conse- 
quences no  one  could  foresee ;  but  when  Cecile  in  after  life 
recalled  that  hour  of  misery,  it  was  strangely  mixed  with 
a  memory  of  sweetness  beyond  compare.  Her  dear 
friend  was  in  danger,  her  dream  of  useful  womanhood 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  215 

had  been  rudely  dispelled ;  but  Ronald  had  come  to  help 
and  comfort  her,  and  things  might  have  been — oh,  so 
much  worse. 


216  THE  INN  OF  REST 

NURSE  AND  DOCTOR. 
II. 

F  YOU  please,  Mrs.  Cameron,  you're  wanted  at 
home  directly,  ma'am.  Colonel  Tyrwhitt's  boy  has 
come  on  the  pony  to  find  you,  and  the  Doctor  says 
it's  most  particular,  if  you  please." 

"At  home,  did  you  say,  or  at  Colonel  Tyrwhitt's?" 

"At  home,  ma'am.  It's  a  gentleman  as  has  been  took 
there;  a  bad  accident,  the  boy  says.  He  don't  think 
he'll  ever  get  over  it." 

"Then  he  had  better  keep  his  thoughts  to  himself.  Tell 
him  to  go  back  and  say  I  am  coming." 

The  doctor's  wife  was  as  well  known  among  the  vil- 
lage patients  as  himself;  her  skill  as  a  trained  nurse 
making  her  exceedingly  popular.  Calmly  as  she  had  re- 
ceived the  summons,  she  did  not  lose  a  minute  in  obey- 
ing it,  taking  a  short  cut  across  the  church  meadows, 
only  available  on  foot.  They  kept  a  room  reserved  for 
patients,  and  it  was  seldom  vacant  for  long ;  more,  people 
were  too  apt  to  say,  on  her  account  than  on  his.  The 
reception  of  these  boarders  was  an  essential  part  of  their 
small  income,  for  Dr.  Cameron  was  not  a  popular  man. 
Devoted  to  his  profession,  he  loved  experiments  and  in- 
vestigations more  than  the  whims  or  woes  of  sick  people ; 
the  practise  he  had  bought  had  proved  less  lucrative  than 
had  been  represented,  and  he  had  been  disappointed 
whenever  he  had  been  a  candidate  for  anything  in  the 
neighborhood  worth  having.  And  as  nothing  succeeds 
like  success,  so  nothing  is  a  greater  hindrance  than  being 
spoken  of  as  "not  getting  on." 

But  he  had  one  strong  point,  and  he  knew  it ;  that  was 
his  wife. 

Miriam  Cameron,  as  she  came  along  the  short  cut 
across  the  church  meadows  that  September  afternoon, 
with  a  step  so  easy  and  elastic  that  its  swiftness  was 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  217 

scarcely  perceptible,  might  have  been  taken  as  a  fair 
specimen  by  the  advocates  of  modern  training.  The  in- 
tellect in  brow  and  eye  had  been  allowed  ample  culture, 
and  the  well-knit  frame  ample  exercise.  She  had  in  fact, 
been  allowed  from  her  early  teens,  to  follow  her  own  bent 
both  in  study  and  recreation;  and  having  worked  her 
way,  satisfactorily,  through  classes  and  examina- 
tions, and  trained  hand,  and  foot,  and  eye,  in  a  variety  of 
pastimes,  had  taken  up  nursing  as  a  profession,  with  all 
its  preliminary  discipline.  And  before  she  had  been  a 
nurse  very  long  she  married  a  physician — which,  some 
lazy  people  suggested,  she  might  have  done  without  all 
that  trouble.  But  no  keen  observer  of  countenances,  who 
studied  hers,  could  fail  to  see  how  the  grinding  of  the 
wheel  had  brought  out  the  polish  of  the  gem.  There  was 
a  latent  sense  of  power  in  her  features  which  had  im- 
pressed Cecile's  young  mind  unawares;  and  part  of  her 
secret  attraction  lay  in  the  sadness  that  in  thoughtful 
moments  would  soften  her  dark  eyes.  The  experience 
which  had  ripened  her  understanding  had  not  been  with- 
out cost. 

As  she  reached  her  own  door  there  seemed  to  be  a 
little  crowd  gathered  around  it;  Cecile  on  Pamela,  with 
Ronald  Knighton  holding  her  bridle — Jack  behind  on  the 
grey  pony ;  and  two  or  three  laborers,  who  had  been  help- 
ing to  carry  the  patient,  were  lingering  to  hear  the  last 
report ;  but  she  allowed  no  time  for  questions.  Her  hus- 
band was  on  the  watch,  and  his  call  was  imperative.  She 
was  with  him  in  an  instant,  and  saw  him  so  strongly 
agitated  that  she  took  care  to  look  just  the  reverse. 

"Is  it  a  bad  case,  dear?  The  room  was  all  ready  and  so 
am  I — only  sorry  you  had  to  send  after  me.  Any  one  I 
know  ?" — for  there  was  an  indescribable  something  in  his 
face,  as  if  he  wanted  to  prepare  her  for  a  shock. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  almost  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "I 
dare  say  you  would  have  known  him  though  he  looks 
much  older  than  when  I  saw  him  last.  Miriam,  it  is 
Everard  Luttrell." 

She  was  but  a  woman,  for  all  her  certificates.    He  put 


218  THE  INN  OF  REST 

her  into  a  chair,  and  hurried  for  a  restorative,  watching 
in  silence  till  her  lips  regained  their  color.  Then,  in 
answer  to  her  look,  for  she  could  not  articulate,  he  told 
what  he  knew  of  the  case,  the  treatment  to  be  carried 
out,  and  the  probabilities  as  far  as  he  had  had  time  to  put 
them  together. 

She  could  understand  and  appreciate,  if  she  could  not 
talk ;  and  when  he  paused  she  bent  her  head  in  assent,  and 
rose  to  prepare  for  immediate  service.  Not  till  she  was 
safe  in  her  own  room  would  she  venture  to  relax  her  self- 
control,  and  then  only  for  a  few  minutes.  By  the  time 
she  had  assumed  her  place  in  the  patient's  chamber  she 
was  outwardly  herself  again. 

That  such  an  event  as  Luttrell's  accident  should  be 
discussed  in  the  papers  was  only  to  be  expected.  He  was 
far  too  popular  and  too  necessary  to  be  thus  suddenly 
laid  by  without  causing  a  great  deal  of  anxiety 
and  excitement.  The  local  and  county  papers  found 
themselves  quite  in  request ;  and  emissaries  from  London 
journals  haunted  the  village,  waylaid  the  servants  at  the 
Combe  and  tried  desperately  to  get  inside  Dr.  Cameron's 
door.  So  many  telegrams  had  to  be  received  and  an- 
swered that  Cecile's  offer  of  help  was  accepted,  and  she 
was  at  the  house  every  day;  her  father  consenting  the 
more  readily,  that  it  was  impossible  to  move  the  patient 
to  his  house.  Curiously  enough,  Cecile's  visits  were  gen- 
erally at  the  same  hour  that  Ronald  Knighton  came  over 
for  a  bulletin.  His  help,  of  course,  was  invaluable,  and 
they  really  got  through  a  good  deal  of  work  during  the 
first  days  of  alarm,  while  the  patient  hovered  between 
life  and  death.  The  whole  neighborhood,  for  miles  round, 
wanted  to  be  equally  useful,  and  enough  game,  fruit,  and 
jelly  to  supply  a  sick  ward  were  sent  in  before  any  could 
be  of  avail  to  the  unconscious  Everard.  It  was  part  of 
the  young  people's  work  to  carry  shares  of  these  dainties 
to  patients  "whom  nobody  cared  about" — a  slight  com- 
pensation for  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Cameron,  whose  whole 
strength  and  time  were  required  by  her  charge. 

No  small  excitement  was  caused  one  day  by  the  ar- 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  219 

rival  of  an  eminent  brother-surgeon,  popularly  supposed 
to  be  intensely  jealous  of  his  rival,  and  eager  to  profit  by 
the  golden  opportunity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  would 
have  given  more  gold  than  he  had  ever  received  to  have 
seen  Everard  Luttrell  at  work  once  more;  and  he  did 
all  in  his  power.  Dr.  Cameron,  with  whom  he  had  a 
long  consultation,  received  his  suggestions  as  something 
beyond  price;  but  the  great  man's  face  was  very  grave 
when  he  took  leave,  with  strict  injunctions  that  he  was  to 
be  sent  for  should  there  be  any  change  for  the  worse. 

"Much  will  depend,"  he  told  Mrs.  Cameron  at  parting, 
"on  the  state  of  his  brain  when  he  regains  consciousness. 
Very  likely  he  will  wander  a  little — never  mind  that. 
The  great  point  is  that  his  mind  should  not  be  distressed. 
There  has  been  too  much  of  that  already." 

"It  shows  what  opinion  Sir  Niel  Kenton  has  of  you 
as  a  nurse,  Miriam,"  was  her  husband's  comment,  "that 
he  should  tell  you  that  so  plainly.  I  noticed  a  change  in 
his  manner  directly  he  knew  that  I  had  worked  under 
poor  Luttrell,  and  been  at  one  time  his  pupil.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  gave  me  a  lift  up  the  hill;  a  word  from  a 
man  like  that  would  be  the  making  of  a  fellow.  If  only 
we  can  pull  through  this !" 

"If  only — !"  was  her  reply;  "we  could  then  afford  to 
wait  for  the  rest." 

Sir  Niel's  forecast  was  soon  verified.  Miriam  had  been 
lying  down  for  a  short  interval,  when  her  husband  came 
in  to  report  the  important  change.  Luttrell  had  recog- 
nized him,  without  appearing  surprised;  only  fancied 
they  were  watching  a  case  together,  and  that  he  had 
been  allowed  to  sleep  too  long. 

"I  quieted  him  with  a  promise  to  call  him  up  if  there 
was  any  change;  and  now  he  is  asleep  again,  and  much 
will  depend  on  his  next  waking." 

"I  shall  be  there,"  was  her  answer;  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes she  was  again  at  her  post,  from  which  indeed  she 
was  never  absent  a  minute  longer  than  she  could  help.  In 
point  of  fact,  as  Cecile  told  Ronald  in  confidence,  Miri- 
am's theory  was  one  thing  and  her  practise  another.  She 


220  THE  INN  OF  REST 

had  maintained  that  a  nurse  must  lose  her  efficiency  if 
she  neglected  the  rules  about  rest,  diet,  and  exercise ;  and 
here  she  was  setting  them  all  at  defiance. 

"And  if  one  says  a  word,  she  looks  so  sad  one  can  say 
no  more.  If  nursing  is  really  this  sort  of  thing,  I  am 
afraid  it  would  never  do  for  me." 

"No,  my  darling,"  was  Ronald's  answer,  "and  nobody 
ever  thought  it  would.  The  only  patient  it  would  be  safe 
for  you  to  meddle  with  would  be  myself.  But  Mrs. 
Cameron  knows  what  she  is  about,  and,  depend  upon  it, 
she  has  her  reasons." 

She  had  stronger  reasons  than  he  imagined.  Even 
her  husband,  who  might  have  known  more,  did  not  guess 
how  deeply  she  was  feeling — how  the  whole  of  her  fu- 
ture life's  peace  seemed  to  hang  on  what  the  sick  man's 
wakening  might  bring.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the  whole 
of  her  past  had  her  eyes  been  such  "homes  of  silent 
prayer"  as  during  that  afternoon's  vigil,  when  the  prac- 
tised quiescence  of  the  body  was  in  such  contrast  with 
the  restless  activity  of  the  mind.  The  room  had  been 
necessarily  kept  in  semi-darkness  on  the  patient's  ac- 
count, and  as  the  autumn  day  faded  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  an  unaccustomed  watcher  to  distinguish  the 
pale  face  from  its  pillow.  Even  she  was  just  consider- 
ing whether  it  were  safe  to  draw  the  curtain  a  little 
more  from  the  window,  when  there  was  a  slight  move- 
ment in  the  bed,  the  heavy  eyelids  were  lifted,  and  the 
eyes  rested  on  hers.  Then,  with  a  pleased  look  of  sur- 
prise, such  as  we  have  all  felt  in  our  time,  when  a  dream 
returns,  of  which  we  say  to  ourselves,  "This  time  it  is 
real !"  came  the  low,  glad  words,  "Why,  Mary !" 

His  nurse's  heart  gave  a  bound  that  almost  turned  her 
faint,  but  she  smiled  in  answer  to  his  smile,  smoothed 
the  quilt,  and  moistened  his  lips.  He  made  a  feeble  at- 
tempt to  take  her  hand,  and  when  she  gave  it  to  him, 
drew  it  to  his  cheek  with  a  sigh  of  comfort  and  relief. 

"I  really  thought — I  must  have  dreamed — you 
were — " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished,  but  the  happy  look 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  221 

lasted  while  she  gave  him  the  appointed  spoonfuls,  and 
lingered  on  his  face  after  he  had  again  dropped  into  a 
doze.  And  that  doze  became  the  most  natural,  healthy 
sleep  he  had  had  yet.  Now  and  then,  at  first,  his  lips 
moved ;  and  more  than  once  her  ear  would  catch  the  mur- 
mur of  pleasure,  almost  like  that  of  a  child,  "My  Mary — 
my  own !" 

"Oh,  God!"  prayed  the  nurse,  as  the  tears  ran  noise- 
lessly down  her  cheeks,  "if  Thine  angel  be  indeed  present, 
let  it  be  with  healing  in  her  wings !" 

Whatever  brought  the  healing,  it  was  certainly  there. 
He  improved  from  that  hour — up  to  a  certain  point.  How 
long  the  sweet  dream  lasted  they  never  knew;  Miriam 
believed  she  could  detect  a  look  that  was  again  surprise, 
without  the  joy;  but,  as  nothing  was  said,  she  could 
not  be  certain.  His  mind  cleared  itself  by  degrees,  and 
he  could  converse  for  a  while  with  Dr.  Cameron,  and 
take  some  professional  interest  in  his  own  case.  Then 
he  was  able  to  ask  after  his  friends,  take  account  of  time, 
and  express  gratitude  for  what  had  been  done  for  him. 
Then  he  was  moved  to  a  sofa,  and  then  into  a  sitting- 
room.  And  people  began  to  speculate  how  soon  he  would 
be  considered  quite  well. 

As  a  step  to  that  desired  end,  Sir  Niel  Kenton  came 
down  again,  and  remained  with  him  some  time  alone. 
Before  taking  leave,  he  said  a  few  words  to  Dr.  Cameron 
that  delighted  him  extremely,  as  well  they  might;  and 
then  begged  to  have  a  few  more  with  his  wife.  A  brief 
but  earnest  conversation  followed,  and  the  great  sur- 
geon drove  away  to  catch  his  train. 

Husband  and  wife  watched  the  departure,  and  turned 
to  exchange  confidences. 

"I  told  you,  Miriam,  it  would  be  the  making  of  us. 
Luttrell  has  got  him  to  give  me  his  vote  and  interest  for 

the  next  vacancy — it  must  come  soon — at hospital, 

the  very  thing  I  most  wished  for.    What  did  he  tell  you 
that  makes  you  look  like  that?" 

For  instead  of  the  delight  he  expected,  her  face  was 
troubled  and  anxious. 


222  THE   INN   OF   REST 

"He  told  me,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  unless  he  was 
roused  now  that  he  has  reached  this  point,  either  his 
mind  or  his  body  would  sink — he  feared  for  the  mind." 

"Do  you  see  your  way  to  doing  it?"  almost  whispered 
the  doctor. 

"I  see  one  way— only  one.  If  it  fails,  I  can  do  no 
more." 

****** 

"Cecile,  my  dear,  your  godfather  has  asked  for  you 
and  I  promised  you  would  go  this  afternoon." 

Colonel  Tyrwhitt  had  been  allowed  to  visit  his  friend, 
and  had  derived  but  small  comfort  from  the  interview. 

"Aye,"  he  went  on,  in  answer  to  his  daughter's  in- 
quiry, "they  say  he  is  recovering;  but  I  don't  like  the 
looks  of  him.  He  begins  to  talk  like  his  old  self,  and  then, 
all  in  a  minute  his  mind  seems  miles  away,  and  there  is 
a  sad  look  in  his  eyes  that  breaks  your  heart.  He  gives 
me  the  idea — in  spite  of  his  good  sense  and  ability — of 
a  man  who  does  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  get  bet- 
ter. I  have  known  more  than  one  poor  fellow  in  hospital 
lose  his  number  for  no  other  reason." 

"But,  dear  papa,  are  you  sure  my  visit  will  do  him  no 
harm?"  faltered  Cecile. 

"Sure  ?  No ;  but  a  little  idle  chatter  will  make  a  change ; 
only  mind  you  are  perfectly  natural,  and  at  your  ease, 
or  you  may  do  more  harm  than  good." 

"Easier  said  than  done,"  thought  poor  Cecile,  but  she 
went,  resolved  to  do  her  best,  and  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised by  his  quiet,  affectionate  greeting. 

The  room  where  he  now  passed  most  of  the  day,  on  a 
sofa,  was  always  kept  in  a  sort  of  twilight,  and  a  screen 
protected  his  eyes  from  the  bright  little  fire  that  the 
shortening  afternoons  made  necessary.  His  watchful 
nurse,  who  could  knit  in  any  light,  not  to  say  dark- 
ness, sat  quietly  employed,  where  she  could  observe 
him  without  appearing  to  do  so;  and  her  cheerful  way 
of  talking  helped  the  younger  visitor  to  overcome  the 
lump  in  her  throat,  and  do  as  her  father  had  told  her. 

"You  owe  me  a  good  turn,  my  dear  Cecile,"  said  the 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  223 

invalid,  as  she  drew  a  low  chair  near  his  sofa,  and  took 
his  hand.  "No  hospital  training  would  do  for  you  what 
Mrs.  Cameron's  example  and  instructions  may,  if  you  are 
in  a  teachable  frame.  Such  a  nurse  does  not  cross  one's 
path  every  day." 

"I  know  that;  but  I  have  learned  my  lesson.  I  look 
upon  good  nurses  with  reverence — perhaps  with  envy — 
but  I  am  not  fitted  to  be  one  of  them." 

"Is  the  grievance  still  so  heavy?"  A  faint  smile  had 
flickered  over  his  face  which  grew  stronger  as  the  color 
flew  into  hers. 

"Oh,  no,  no, — I  have  no  grievance  now — except  in- 
deed"— as  if  an  after-thought — "your  being  laid  up  like 
this  through  Pamela's  fault,  or  mine." 

"No  one's  fault,  my  dear;  these  things  happen  every 
day,  only  the  objects  of  your  envy  are  not  always  so  near 
at  hand."  He  inclined  his  head  to  Miriam  as  he  spoke, 
and  she  saw  the  opportunity  for  which  she  had  been 
waiting. 

"We  are  not  always  to  be  envied,"  she  said  as  she  laid 
down  her  knitting,  moved  to  the  window,  and  having  re- 
arranged the  curtain,  slipped  into  a  seat  where  her  face 
was  almost  hidden.  "I  could  tell  you  a  story,  Cecile,  of 
my  own  experience,  that  would  give  you  quite  another 
impression." 

The  dreaded  shadow  was  coming  over  his  eyes,  and  she 
durst  not  wait  for  encouragement.  Cecile,  however, 
while  stroking  her  godfather's  hand,  discovered  that  his 
attention  was  caught  directly  the  story  began. 

"I  was  called  in  to  nurse  a  lady  once  under  unusual 
circumstances.  Her  husband,  one  of  the  rising  surgeons 
of  that  day,  had  been  summoned  into  the  country  to  a 
most  urgent  and  difficult  case;  and  soon  after  his  de- 
parture she  met  with  an  accident  that  disabled  her  right 
arm.  Her  husband's  colleague  and  former  pupil  at- 
tended her,  and  as  I  had  worked  under  him  already,  he 
sent  for  me,  her  servants  having  no  idea  of  nursing.  It 
was  a  simple  case,  but  required  care,  and  she  was  as  fra- 
gile as  she  was  beautiful." 


224  THE  INN  OF  REST 

Cecile  felt  the  thin  fingers  tighten  on  her  own,  but  he 
made  no  other  sign.  The  speaker's  voice  went  on,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  with  bell-like  distinctness: 

"At  that  time — you  were  too  young  to  know  much 
about  it — there  was  a  great  talk  among  medical  men  of 
a  new  treatment  for  consumption  that  was  to  work  won- 
derful cures.  The  same  thing  has  occurred  since  and 
become  widely  known;  this  was  .the  dream  of  a  few 
months  only.  The  doctor  was  keen  about  it,  and  I  soon 
found  that  my  sweet  patient  had  her  own  reasons  for 
sharing  his  enthusiasm.  She  was  doomed,  and  she  knew 
it ;  and  in  the  sleepless  hours  of  the  night  she  confided  to 
me  her  passionate  longing  to  try  the  new  remedy,  so  as 
to  give  herself  the  chance  of  a  few  more  years  with  her 
husband.  She  had  begged  him  to  give  it  her  in  vain — 
the  first  thing  he  had  ever  refused  her.  Either  he  doubted 
the  treatment  or  feared  the  risk.  His  very  affection  stood 
in  the  way;  but  if  it  were  done  in  his  absence,  and  he 
found  her  with  a  new  lease  of  life  on  his  return,  what 
reward  would  he  think  too  much  ?  And  then,  with  what 
confidence  would  he  carry  to  other  despairing  households 
the  deliverance  accomplished  in  his  own! 

"My  better  judgment  was  against  her,  but  before  I 
had  time  to  remonstrate  she  was  weeping  on  my  shoul- 
der, imploring  me  to  give  her  just  this  chance  of  life. 

"I  was  wrong,  Cecile,  and  I  make  no  excuse;  but  I 
could  not  resist  those  tears,  those  eyes,  that  pleading 
voice.  I  helped  her  to  overcome  the  doctor's  scruples — 
scruples  on  his  friend's  account,  for  he  was  sanguine  as 
to  the  result — and  the  attempt  was  made. 

"All  seemed  going  well  at  first ;  then — we  were  obliged 
to  own  her  husband  had  known  best,  and  he  was  sent  for, 
but  came  too  late. 

"She  had  said  to  me,  just  before  becoming  unconscious, 
'It  was  my  one  disobedience — ask  him  to  forgive  me/ 

"I  was  too  ill  at  the  time  to  give  the  message,  and  after- 
wards he  would  not  see  me ;  a  letter  I  wrote  came  back 
to  me  unopened.  So  it  has  waited  all  these  years  to  be 
given — at  last!" 


NURSE  AND  DOCTOR  225 

With  the  two  closing  words  the  clear  voice  dropped, 
and  silence  fell  upon  the  darkening  room. 

Then  Cecile  felt  the  grip  on  her  hands  relax,  and  the 
invalid  rose  from  the  sofa  and  crossed  over  to  Miriam's 
chair. 

"Mrs.  Cameron" — she  hardly  knew  the  voice,  it  was 
so  full  of  intense  feeling — "I  never  imagined  this ;  I  have 
done  you  cruel  injustice,  and  this  is  your  revenge.  For 
pity's  sake,  say  that  you  forgive  me !  You  would,  if  you 
had  ever  felt  for  one  hour  the  agony  of  being  unable  to 
forgive !" 

His  hand  grasped  hers,  and  as  he  felt  her  tears  fall 
upon  it  his  own  burst  forth  like  rain — such  rain  as  sweeps 
away  the  germs  of  death  and  brings  health  both  to  body 
and  soul. 

Later  on,  when  he  could  talk  quietly  with  his  hosts 
about  the  past,  he  touched  on  what  had  been  the  burden 
of  his  solitary  years — the  morbid  tendency  to  brood  over 
his  loss  as  an  unavenged  wrong.  Knowing  what  mad- 
ness lay  that  way,  he  had  done  his  best  to  fight  it  down ; 
but  had  never  felt  secure  that  the  bitterness  would  not 
return.  With  Cameron  he  had  broken  from  the  first,  and 
had  never  heard  whom  he  had  married.  His  private 
belief  had  been  that  nurse  and  doctor  had  either  per- 
suaded or  deceived  his  poor  Mary  between  them.  How 
difficult  it  was  to  resist  her  entreaties  no  one  knew  better 
than  himself. 

With  the  interchange  of  pardon  his  peace  of  mind  re- 
turned, never  to  be  lost  again;  and  in  due  time  his 
strength  also. 

His  gratitude  was  of  the  enduring  character  natural  to 
such  a  man,  and  in  proportion  to  the  suffering  from 
which  he  had  been  relieved. 

It  was  not  only  his  former  pupil  who  might  date  the 
period  of  Everard's  accident  as  the  turning-point  in  his 
own  career,  largely  as  he  and  his  benefited  by  the  friend- 
ship thus  happily  restored.  When  able  to  hear  the  whole 
story  of  his  own  adventure,  Luttrell  insisted  on  the  point, 
disputed  as  it  might  be,  that  his  real  benefactor  was  the 


226  THE  INN  OF  REST 

lad  who  had  shadowed  him.  But  for  his  shooting  that 
rabbit,  he  might  never  have  known  what  he  knew  now. 

And,  being  thus  burdened  with  obligation,  it  was 
needful  to  take  Cecile  into  his  confidence  as  to  the  best 
method  of  discharging  it. 

How  much  the  parents  of  both  parties  had  surmised 
before  was  never  quote  clear;  what  they  were  certain 
about  was,  that  a  younger  son,  with  no  profession,  was 
not  to  be  encouraged  to  engage  himself,  however  charm- 
ing the  young  lady.  How  this  objection  was  overcome 
would  take  too  long  to  explain ;  but  the  fact  that  during 
that  winter  a  Government  appointment  was  procured  for 
Ronald  Knighton,  from  a  distinguished  patient  of  Ever- 
ard's,  coupled  with  an  assertion  that,  as  Cecile's  god- 
father, he  had  a  right  to  see  that  she  had  enough  to  live 
upon,  will  perhaps  be  considered  to  explain  itself. 

When  he  pleaded  his  own  lost  happiness,  and  his  long- 
ing to  see  its  image  in  the  lives  of  others,  little  was  left 
for  prudence  or  scruples  to  reply. 

Had  that  face,  so  dearly  loved,  indeed  visited  his  pillow, 
a  messenger  from  Heaven  to  lead  him  back  to  life  and 
usefulness?  Had  she  longed,  even  in  her  sweet  rest,  for 
an  assurance  that  he  did  forgive,  or  was  it  only  the 
half-waking  dream  of  weakened  nerves,  to  be  put  aside 
as  unworthy  a  serious  thought? 

He  never  spoke  of  it,  but  he  never  put  it  aside. 


HOSPITAL  SCENES  AND  PERSONS 

Walt  Whitman 


HOSPITAL  SCENES  AND  PERSONS 


PATENT-OFFICE  HOSPITAL. 

EBRUARY  23,  1863.  I  must  not  let  the  great 
hospital  at  the  Patent-Office  pass  away  without 
some  mention.  A  few  weeks  ago  the  vast  area 
of  the  second  story  of  that  noblest  of  Washing- 
ton buildings  was  crowded  close  with  rows  of  sick,  badly 
wounded,  and  dying  soldiers.  They  were  placed  in  three 
very  large  apartments.  I  went  there  many  times.  It 
was  a  strange,  solemn,  and,  with  all  its  features  of  suf- 
fering and  death,  a  sort  of  fascinating  sight.  I  would  go 
sometimes  at  night  to  soothe  and  relieve  particular  cases. 
Two  of  the  immense  apartments  are  filled  with  high  and 
ponderous  glass  cases,  crowded  with  models  in  minia- 
ture of  every  kind  of  utensil,  machine,  or  invention  it 
ever  entered  into  the  mind  of  man  to  conceive ;  and  with 
curiosities  and  foreign  presents.  Between  these  cases  are 
lateral  openings,  perhaps  eight  feet  wide  and  quite  deep, 
and  in  these  were  placed  the  sick,  besides  a  great  long 
double  row  of  them  up  and  down  through  the  middle  of 
the  hall.  Many  of  them  were  very  bad  cases,  wounds  and 
amputations.  Then  there  was  a  gallery  running  above  the 
hall  in  which  there  were  beds  also.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
curious  scene,  especially  at  night  when  lit  up.  The  glass 
cases,  the  beds,  the  forms  lying  there,  the  gallery  above, 
and  the  marble  pavement  under  foot — the  suffering,  and 
the  fortitude  to  bear  it  in  various  degrees — occasionally, 
from  some,  the  groan  that  could  not  be  repressed — some- 
times a  poor  fellow  dying,  with  emaciated  face  and 
glassy  eye,  the  nurse  by  his  side,  the  doctor  also  there, 
but  no  friend,  no  relative — such  were  the  sights  but 
lately  in  the  Patent-Office.  (The  wounded  have  since 
been  removed  from  there,  and  it  is  now  vacant  again.) 


230  THE  INN  OF  REST 

AN  ARMY  HOSPITAL  WARD. 

Let  me  specialize  a  visit  I  made  to  the  collection  of 
barrack-like  one-story  edifices,  Campbell  hospital,  out 
on  the  flats,  at  the  end  of  the  then  horse  railway  route, 
on  Seventh  Street.  There  is  a  long  building  appropri- 
ated to  each  ward.  Let  us  go  into  ward  6.  It  contains 
to-day,  I  should  judge,  eighty  or  a  hundred  patients, 
half  sick,  half  wounded.  The  edifice  is  nothing  but 
boards,  well  whitewashed  inside,  and  the  usual  slender- 
framed  iron  bedsteads,  narrow  and  plain.  You  walk 
down  the  central  passage,  with  a  row  on  either  side,  their 
feet  towards  you,  and  their  heads  to  the  wall.  There  are 
fires  in  large  stoves,  and  the  prevailing  white  of  the  walls 
is  relieved  by  some  ornaments,  stars,  circles,  etc.,  made 
of  evergreens.  The  view  of  the  whole  edifice  and  oc- 
cupants can  be  taken  at  once,  for  there  is  no  partition. 
You  may  hear  groans  or  other  sounds  of  unendurable 
suffering  from  two  or  three  of  the  cots,  but  in  the  main 
there  is  quiet — almost  a  painful  absence  of  demonstra- 
tion; but  the  pallid  face,  the  dulled  eye,  and  the  mois- 
ture on  the  lip,  are  demonstration  enough.  Most  of 
these  sick  or  hurt  are  evidently  young  fellows  from  the 
country,  farmer's  sons,  and  such  like.  Look  at  the  fine 
large  frames,  the  bright  and  broad  countenances,  and  the 
many  yet  lingering  proofs  of  strong  constitution  and 
physique.  Look  at  the  patient  and  mute  manner  of  our 
American  wounded  as  they  lie  in  such  a  sad  collection; 
representatives  from  all  New  England,  and  from  New 
York,  and  New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania — indeed  from 
all  the  States  and  all  the  cities — largely  from  the  West. 
Most  of  them  are  entirely  without  friends  or  acquain- 
tances here — no  familiar  face,  and  hardly  a  word  of  judi- 
cious sympathy  or  cheer,  through  their  sometimes  long 
and  tedious  sickness,  or  the  pangs  of  aggravated  wounds. 

MY  PREPARATION  FOR  VISITS. 

In  my  visits  to  the  hospitals  I  found  it  was  in  the  sim- 
ple matter  of  personal  presence,  and  emanating  ordinary 
cheer  and  magnetism,  that  I  succeeded  and  helped  more 


HOSPITAL  SCENES  AND  PERSONS  231 

than  by  medical  nursing,  or  delicacies,  or  gifts  of  money, 
or  anything  else.  During  the  war  I  possessed  the  per- 
fection of  physical  health.  My  habit,  when  practicable, 
was  to  prepare  for  starting  out  on  one  of  those  daily  or 
nightly  tours  of  from  a  couple  to  four  or  five  hours,  by 
fortifying  myself  with  previous  rest,  the  bath,  clean 
clothes,  a  good  meal,  and  as  cheerful  an  appearance  as 
possible. 

AMBULANCE  PROCESSIONS. 

June  25,  Sundown. — As  I  sit  writing  this  paragraph  I 
see  a  train  of  about  thirty  huge  four-horse  wagons,  used 
as  ambulances,  filled  with  wounded,  passing  up  Four- 
teenth Street,  on  their  way,  probably,  to  Columbian,  Car- 
ver, and  Mount  Pleasant  hospitals.  This  is  the  way  the 
men  come  in  now,  seldom  in  small  numbers,  but  almost 
always  in  these  long,  sad  processions.  Through  the  past 
winter,  while  our  army  lay  opposite  Fredericksburg,  the 
like  strings  of  ambulances  were  of  frequent  occurrence 
along  Seventh  Street,  passing  slowly  up  from  the  steam- 
boat wharf,  with  loads  from  Aquia  Creek. 

HOSPITAL  ENSEMBLE. 

Aug.,  Sep.,  and  Oct.,  '63. — I  am  in  the  habit  of  going  to 
all,  and  to  Fairfax  Seminary,  Alexandria,  and  over  Long 
bridge  to  the  great  Convalescent  camp.  The  journals  pub- 
lish a  regular  directory  of  them — a  long  list.  As  a  speci- 
men of  almost  any  one  of  the  larger  of  these  hospitals, 
fancy  to  yourself  a  space  of  three  to  twenty  acres  of 
ground,  on  which  are  grouped  ten  or  twelve  very  large 
wooden  barracks,  with,  perhaps,  a  dozen  or  twenty, 
and  sometimes  more  than  that  number,  small  buildings, 
capable  altogether  of  accommodating  from  five  hundred 
to  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  persons.  Sometimes 
these  wooden  barracks  or  wards,  each  of  them  perhaps 
from  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  are 
ranged  in  a  straight  row,  evenly  fronting  the  street; 
others  are  planned  so  as  to  form  an  immense  V;  and 
others  again  are  ranged  around  a  hollow  square.  They 


232  THE  INN  OF  REST 

make  altogether  a  huge  cluster,  with  the  aHditional  tents, 
extra  wards  for  contagious  diseases,  guard-houses,  sut- 
ler's stores,  chaplain's  house;  in  the  middle  will  prob- 
ably be  an  edifice  devoted  to  the  offices  of  the  surgeon 
in  charge,  and  the  ward  surgeons,  principal  attache's, 
clerks,  etc.  The  wards  are  either  lettered  alphabetically, 
ward  G,  ward  K,  or  else  numerically,  1,  2,  3,  etc.  Each 
has  its  ward  surgeon  and  corps  of  nurses.  Of  course, 
there  is,  in  the  aggregate,  quite  a  muster  of  employes,  and 
over  all  the  surgeon  in  charge. 

Here  in  Washington,  when  these  army  hospitals  are 
all  filled  (as  they  have  been  already  several  times),  they 
contain  a  population  more  numerous  in  itself  than  the 
whole  of  the  Washington  of  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago. 
Within  sight  of  the  capitol,  as  I  write,  are  some  thirty 
or  forty  such  collections,  at  times  holding  from  fifty  to 
seventy  thousand  men.  Looking  from  any  eminence  and 
studying  the  topography  in  my  rambles,  I  use  them  as 
landmarks.  Through  the  rich  August  verdure  of  the 
trees,  see  that  white  group  of  buildings  off  yonder  in  the 
outskirts;  then  another  cluster  half  a  mile  to  the  left  of 
the  first;  then  another  a  mile  to  the  right,  and  another 
a  mile  beyond,  and  still  another  between  us  and  the  first. 
Indeed,  we  can  hardly  look  in  any  direction  but  these 
clusters  are  dotting  the  landscape  and  environs.  That 
little  town,  as  you  might  suppose  it,  off  there  on  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  is  indeed  a  town,  but  of  wounds,  sickness,  and 
death.  It  is  Finley  hospital,  northeast  of  the  city,  on 
Kendall  green,  as  it  used  to  be  called.  That  other  is 
Campbell  hospital.  Both  are  large  establishments.  I 
have  known  these  two  alone  to  have  from  two  thousand 
to  twenty-five  hundred  inmates.  Then  there  is  Carver 
hospital,  larger  still,  a  walled  and  military  city  regularly 
laid  out,  and  guarded  by  squads  of  sentries.  Again,  off 
east,  Lincoln  hospital,  a  still  larger  one;  and  half 
a  mile  further  Emory  hospital.  Still  sweeping  the  eye 
around  down  the  river  toward  Alexandria,  we  see,  to  the 
right,  the  locality  where  the  Convalescent  camp  stands, 
with  its  five,  eight  or  sometimes  ten  thousand  inmates. 


HOSPITAL  SCENES  AND  PERSONS  233 

Even  all  these  are  but  a  portion.  The  Harewood,  Mount 
Pleasant,  Armory-square,  Judiciary  hospitals,  are  some  of 
the  rest,  and  all  large  collections. 

HOSPITAL  PERPLEXITY 

To  add  to  other  troubles,  amid  the  confusion  of  this 
great  army  of  sick,  it  is  almost  impossible  for  a  stranger 
to  find  any  friend  or  relative,  unless  he  has  the  patient's 
specific  address  to  start  upon.  Besides  the  directory 
printed  in  the  newspapers  here,  there  are  one  or  two 
general  directories  of  the  hospitals  kept  at  provost's 
headquarters,  but  they  are  nothing  like  complete;  they 
never  are  up  to  date,  and,  as  things  are,  with  the  daily 
streams  of  coming  and  going  and  changing,  cannot  be. 
I  have  known  cases,  for  instance,  such  as  a  farmer  com- 
ing here  from  northern  New  York  to  find  a  wounded 
brother,  faithfully  hunting  around  for  a  week,  and  then 
compelled  to  leave  and  go  home  without  getting  any 
trace  of  him.  When  he  got  home  he  found  a  letter  from 
the  brother  giving  the  right  address. 

ARMY  SURGEONS — AID  DEFICIENCIES. 

I  must  bear  my  most  emphatic  testimony  to  the  zeal, 
manliness  and  professional  spirit  and  capacity  generally 
prevailing  among  the  surgeons,  many  of  them  young  men, 
in  the  hospitals  and  the  army.  I  will  not  say  much  about 
the  exceptions,  for  they  are  few ;  (but  I  have  met  some  of 
those  few,  and  very  incompetent  and  airish  they  were). 
I  never  ceased  to  find  the  best  men,  and  the  hardest  and 
most  disinterested  workers,  among  the  surgeons  in  the 
hospitals.  They  are  full  of  genius,  too.  I  have  seen  many 
hundreds  of  them  and  this  is  my  testimony.  There  are, 
however,  serious  deficiencies,  wastes,  sad  want  of  system, 
in  the  commissions,  contributions,  and  in  all  the  volun- 
tary, and  a  great  part  of  the  governmental  nursing,  edi- 
bles, medicines,  stores,  etc.  (I  do  not  say  surgical  atten- 
dance, because  the  surgeons  cannot  do  more  than  human 
endurance  permits.)  Whatever  puffing  accounts  there 
may  be  in  the  papers  of  the  North,  this  is  the  actual  fact. 


234  THE  INN  OF  REST 

No  thorough  previous  preparation,  no  system,  no  fore- 
sight, no  genius.  Always  plenty  of  stores,  no  doubt,  but 
never  where  they  are  needed,  and  never  the  proper  ap- 
plication. Of  all  harrowing  experiences,  none  is  greater 
than  that  of  the  days  following  a  heavy  battle.  Scores, 
hundreds  of  the  noblest  men  on  earth,  uncomplaining,  lie 
helpless,  mangled,  faint,  alone,  and  so  bleed  to  death,  or 
die  from  exhaustion,  either  actually  untouched  at  all,  or 
merely  the  laying  of  them  down  and  leaving  them,  when 
there  ought  to  be  means  provided  to  save  them. 

BURIAL  OP  A  LADY  NURSE. 

Here  is  an  incident  just  occurred  in  one  of  the  hos- 
pitals. A  lady  named  Miss  or  Mrs.  Billings,  who  had 
long  been  a  practical  friend  of  soldiers,  and  nurse  in  the 
army,  and  had  become  attached  to  it  in  a  way  that  no  one 
can  realize  but  him  or  her  who  has  had  experience,  was 
taken  sick,  early  this  winter,  lingered  some  time,  and 
finally  died  in  the  hospital.  It  was  her  request  that  she 
should  be  buried  among  the  soldiers,  and  after  the  mili- 
tary method.  This  request  was  fully  carried  out.  Her 
coffin  was  carried  to  the  grave  by  soldiers,  with  the  usual 
escort,  buried  and  a  salute  fired  over  the  grave.  This 
was  at  Annapolis  a  few  days  since. 

FEMALE  NURSES  FOR  SOLDIERS. 

There  are  many  women  in  one  position  or  another, 
among  the  hospitals,  mostly  as  nurses  here  in  Washing- 
ton, and  among  the  military  stations ;  quite  a  number  of 
them  young  ladies  acting  as  volunteers.  They  are  a  help 
in  certain  ways,  and  deserve  to  be  mentioned  with  re- 
spect. Then  it  remains  to  be  distinctly  said  that  few  or 
no  young  ladies,  under  the  irresistible  conventions  of 
society,  answer  the  practical  requirements  of  nurses  for 
soldiers.  Middle-aged  or  healthy  and  good  conditioned 
elderly  women,  mothers  of  children,  are  always  best. 
Many  of  the  wounded  must  be  handled.  A  hundred 
things  which  cannot  be  gainsaid,  must  occur  and  must 
be  done.  The  presence  of  a  good  middle-aged  or  elderly 


HOSPITAL  SCENES  AND  PERSONS  235 

woman,  the  magnetic  touch  of  hands,  the  expressive  fea- 
tures of  the  mother,  the  silent  soothing  of  her  presence, 
her  words,  her  knowledge  and  privileges  arrived  at  only 
through  having  had  children,  are  precious  and  final  quali- 
fications. It  is  a  natural  faculty  that  is  required;  it  is 
not  merely  having  a  genteel  young  woman  at  a  table  in 
the  ward.  One  of  the  finest  nurses  I  met  was  a  red- 
faced,  illiterate  old  Irish  woman ;  I  have  seen  her  take  the 
poor  wasted  naked  boys  so  tenderly  up  in  her  arms. 
There  are  plenty  of  excellent  clean  old  black  women  that 
would  make  tip-top  nurses. 

WOUNDS  AND  DISEASES. 

The  war  is  over,  but  the  hospitals  are  fuller  than  ever, 
from  former  and  current  cases.  A  large  majority  of  the 
wounds  are  in  the  arms  and  legs.  But  there 
is  every  kind  of  wound,  in  every  part  of  the  body.  I 
should  say  of  the  sick,  from  my  observation  that  the 
prevailing  maladies  are  typhoid  fever  and  the  camp 
fevers  generally,  diarrhoea,  catarrhal  affections  and  bron- 
chitis, rheumatism  and  pneumonia.  These  forms  of  sick- 
ness lead;  all  the  rest  follow.  There  are  twice  as  many 
sick  as  there  are  wounded.  The  deaths  range  from 
seven  to  ten  per  cent,  of  those  under  treatment. 

HOSPITALS  CLOSING. 

October  3. — There  are  two  army  hospitals  now  remain- 
ing. I  went  to  the  largest  of  these  (Douglas)  and  spent 
the  afternoon  and  evening.  There  are  many  sad  cases, 
old  wounds,  incurable  sickness,  and  some  of  the  wounded 
from  the  March  and  April  battles  before  Richmond.  Few 
realize  how  sharp  and  bloody  those  closing  battles  were. 
Our  men  exposed  themselves  more  than  usual ;  pressed 
ahead  without  urging.  Then  the  Southerners  fought  with 
extra  desperation.  Both  sides  knew  that  with  the  suc- 
cessful chasing  of  the  rebel  cabal  from  Richmond,  and  the 
occupation  of  that  city  by  the  National  troops,  the  game 
was  up.  The  dead  and  wounded  were  unusually  many. 
Of  the  wounded  the  last  lingering  driblets  have  been 
brought  to  hospitals  here.  I  find  many  rebel  wounded 


236  THE  INN  OF  REST 

here,  and  have  been  extra  busy  to-day  'tending  to  the 
worst  cases  of  them  with  the  rest. 

Oct.,  Nov.,  and  Dec.,  '65 — Sundays. — Every  Sunday  of 
those  months  visited  Harewood  hospital  out  in  the  woods, 
pleasant  and  recluse,  some  two  and  a  half  or  three  miles 
north  of  the  capitol.  The  situation  is  healthy,  with 
broken  ground,  grassy  slopes  and  patches  of  oak  woods, 
the  trees  large  and  fine.  It  was  one  of  the  most  extensive 
of  the  hospitals,  now  reduced  to  four  or  five  partially  oc- 
cupied wards,  the  numerous  others  being  vacant.  In 
November,  this  became  the  last  military  hospital  kept 
up  by  the  government,  all  the  others  being  closed.  Cases 
of  the  worst  and  most  incurable  wounds,  obstinate  ill- 
ness, and  of  poor  fellows  who  have  no  homes  to  go  to,  are 
found  here. 

Dec.  10 — Sunday. — Again  spending  a  good  part  of  the 
day  at  Harewood.  I  write  this  about  an  hour  before  sun- 
down. I  have  walked  out  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  edge 
of  the  woods  to  soothe  myself  with  the  hour  and  scene. 
It  is  a  glorious,  warm,  golden-sunny,  still  afternoon.  The 
only  noise  is  from  a  crowd  of  cawing  crows,  on  some  trees 
three  hundred  yards  distant.  Clusters  of  gnats  swim- 
ming and  dancing  in  the  air  in  all  directions.  The  oak 
leaves  are  thick  under  the  bare  trees,  and  give  a  strong 
and  delicious  perfume.  Inside  the  wards  everything  is 
gloomy.  Death  is  there.  As  I  entered,  I  was  confronted 
by  it  the  first  thing;  the  corpse  of  a  poor  soldier,  just 
dead,  of  typhoid  fever.  The  attendants  had  just  straight- 
ened the  limbs,  put  coppers  on  the  eyes,  and  were  laying 
it  out. 

The  roads. — A  great  recreation,  the  past  three  years,  has 
been  in  taking  long  walks  out  from  Washington,  five, 
seven,  perhaps  ten  miles  and  back ;  generally  with  my 
friend  Peter  Doyle,  who  is  as  fond  of  it  as  I  am.  Fine 
moonlight  nights,  over  the  perfect  military  roads,  hard 
and  smooth— or  Sundays — we  had  these  delightful  walks, 
never  to  be  forgotten.  The  roads  connecting  Washing- 
ton and  the  numerous  forts  around  the  city,  made  one 
useful  result,  at  any  rate,  out  of  the  war. 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION 

Isabel  Hampton  Robb 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION. 

HAT  you  may  better  understand  the  conditions 
now  existing  in  the  hospital  and  nursing  world, 
I  shall  first  briefly  sketch  some  of  the  devious 
ways  by  which  modern  nursing  has  come  to  its 
present  status,  worthy  to  be  ranked  as  an  art  and  a  pro- 
fession. A  full  consideration  of  the  entire  range  of  this 
subject  would  far  exceed  the  possibilities  of  a  single  chap- 
ter. The  ancient  history  of  hospitals  and  their  methods 
of  dealing  with  their  sick,  both  before  and  during  the 
early  days  of  Christianity  would  by  itself  afford  abun- 
dant material  for  an  interesting  volume,  while  a  sec- 
ond might  deal  with  the  rise  and  growth  of  the  multi- 
tudes of  monasteries  and  religious  sisterhoods,  which  be- 
gan in  the  middle  ages  and  have  lasted  down  to  our  own 
times.  But  although  these  events  are  full  of  intense  in- 
terest from  a  historical  standpoint,  they  had  little  to  do 
in  leading  up  to  the  present  methods  in  hospitals  and 
nursing.  Only  it  may  be  remembered  that  one  founder, 
among  the  many,  seems  to  have  spoken  with  prophetic 
voice  of  things  to  come,  when  he  ordained  for  the  Sisters 
of  Mercy  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul:  "They  shall  have  no 
monasteries  but  the  house  of  the  sick,  no  cells  but  a  hired 
room,  no  cloisters  but  the  streets  of  a  town  and  the  wards 
of  the  hospital,  no  inclosure  but  obedience,  and  for  con- 
vent bars  only  the  fear  of  God ;  for  a  veil  they  shall  have 
a  holy  and  perfect  modesty;  and  while  they  keep  them- 
selves from  the  infection  of  vice  they  shall  sow  the  seeds 
of  virtue  wherever  they  turn  their  steps."  Hundreds  of 
years  have  passed  since  those  words  were  spoken,  but 
they  perfectly  picture  the  ideals  of  the  sisterhood  of 
trained  nurses  at  the  close  of  the  ninteenth  century.  And 
what  more  beautiful  inspiration  need  a  woman  have  to 
join  forces  to  make  such  ideals  daily  facts? 


240  THE  INN  OF  REST 

Let  us  then,  leave  nursing  with  its  ancient  and  medieval 
conditions  and  confine  ourselves  to  a  consideration  of 
what  has  been  done  during  the  last  hundred  years.  It 
would  seem  that  the  first  quarter  of  the  century  found  a 
condition  of  affairs  that  in  point  of  degradation  could 
hardly  be  conceived  possible.  The  hospitals  stood  for  all 
that  was  bad ;  they  were  lazar-houses  not  only  of  physi- 
cal horrors,  but  also  of  moral  iniquity;  the  nursing  was 
relegated  to  those  among  women  who  were  not  con- 
sidered of  sufficient  respectability  to  be  entrusted  with 
the  most  menial  of  domestic  work,  and  whose  moral  tur- 
pitude was  equaled  only  by  their  incompetence.  But  dur- 
ing these  years  there  were  born  into  the  world  four  peo- 
ple who  lived  to  bring  light  into  dark  places  and  who  by 
example  and  precept  brought  about  a  revolution.  There 
is  no  need  for  me  to  speak  to  you  at  length  of  Elizabeth 
Fry  and  her  work  in  prisons  and  hospitals,  of  Charles 
Dickens  and  his  inimitable  writings,  of  Pastor  Fliedner, 
the  founder  of  the  order  of  German  Deaconesses,  and  last 
but  not  least,  of  our  own  beloved  Miss  Nightingale. 
Their  names  will  live  forever  in  our  hearts  and  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  come  after  us. 

With  the  last  two,  however,  we  have  more  to  do  just 
now,  since  they  were  practically  the  founders  of  the 
present  system  of  nursing  the  sick.  Theodore  Fliedner 
was  born  in  the  year  1800,  in  the  small  village  of  Epp- 
stein  on  the  frontiers  of  Hesse  and  Nassau,  where  his 
father  was  the  parish  clergyman.  At  the  age  of  20  he 
himself  became  the  pastor  of  the  little  town  of  Kaiser- 
werth  on  the  Rhine,  which  has  become  famous  for  all 
time  on  account  of  the  great  work  which  he  established 
there.  On  an  income  of  $125  a  year  he  managed  not 
only  to  exist,  but  also  to  help  his  parishioners,  who  were 
in  a  condition  of  extreme  poverty,  and  a  prey  to  dirt 
and  disease.  Before  he  had  lived  there  very  long,  even 
this  income  became  diminished  owing  to  the  failure  of  the 
velvet  manufactories  which  supplied  work  to  most  of  the 
parishioners.  As  a  result  he  was  obliged  to  cast  about 
to  save  his  church  and  help  his  neighbors  in  their  dis- 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION  241 

tress,  and  with  this  object  in  view  he  made  journeys 
through  Germany,  Holland,  and  England,  pleading  his 
cause  with  more  or  less  success.  But  from  these  jour- 
neys was  realized  something  of  far  more  value  than  the 
money  he  raised.  He  brought  back  with  him  an  experi- 
ence and  knowledge  of  what  was  being  done  in  other 
countries  in  the  way  of  charitable  enterprise.  While  in 
England  he  encountered  Elizabeth  Fry,  and  as  a  result 
his  attention  became  directed  towards  prison  reform.  On 
his  return  to  Germany,  he  set  about  founding  an  asylum 
for  discharged  women  prisoners  and  appealed  to  Chris- 
tian womanhood  to  support  him  in  his  work.  In  1833 
the  first  woman  prisoner,  who  later  became  the  first 
deaconess,  arrived  at  Kaiserwerth.  At  the  same  time 
Fliedner  founded  his  hospital,  beginning  with  a  single 
patient.  But  even  for  this  one  patient  a  nurse  was  neces- 
sary. The  recognition  of  this  need  led  to  the  founding, 
or  rather  the  reviving  of  the  order  of  Deaconesses, 
which  the  church  in  its  early  days  had  established  as 
necessary  to  its  successful  working,  but  which  as  time 
went  on  had  been  allowed  to  disappear.  How  the  im- 
provements thus  instituted  by  Pastor  Fliedner  have  ad- 
vanced still  further  until  they  have  spread  all  over  the 
world,  I  need  not  mention  in  detail.  I  will  only  refer  to 
the  way  in  which  his  work  was  brought  into  direct  con- 
nection with  the  system  of  modern  nursing  through  Flor- 
ence Nightingale,  the  founder  and  heroine  of  hospital 
nursing  as  it  now  exists  and  the  patron  saint  of  nurses. 

Miss  Nightingale  was  born  at  Florence,  Italy,  in  1820, 
her  parents  being  English  gentle  people  of  influence  and 
wealth.  A  natural  philanthropist,  while  still  a  very 
young  woman,  she  was  stirred  in  her  inmost  soul  by  the 
deplorable  care  given  to  the  sick  both  inside  and  out- 
side of  hospitals.  Urged  on  by  an  intense  desire  to  do 
something  towards  removing  this  reproach  to  the  in- 
telligence and  humanity  of  the  nineteenth  century,  she 
left  her  home  and  went  from  place  to  place  in  Europe 
examining  the  different  systems  employed  in  the  various 
countries  and  comparing  one  with  the  other.  As  the 


242  THE  INN  OF  REST 

fruit  of  these  pilgrimages  we  have  her  book  entitled 
"Notes  on  Hospitals" — rich  in  suggestions  for  practical 
reforms.  In  these  she  laid  particular  stress  upon  sanitary 
construction  in  hospitals,  and  to  what  she  then  wrote  we 
owe  the  attention  that,  from  that  time  on,  began  to  be  de- 
voted to  sanitation  and  hygiene,  the  perfection  of  which 
we  now  find  in  new  hospitals  the  world  over.  But  Miss 
Nightingale  recognized  that  in  order  to  do  effective  work 
in  bettering  matters,  it  was  necessary  to  supplement  her 
theoretical  knowledge  by  a  practical  acquaintance  with 
the  subject.  As  the  result  of  several  months  spent  at 
Kaiserwerth  on  two  different  occasions,  she  was  able  to 
write :  "I  at  once  recognized  what  I  had  so  long  sought 
— a  spirit  of  devotion,  of  order  and  unity  of  purpose.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  be  impressed  with  the  air  of  purity 
and  deep,  unaffected  piety  which  pervaded  the  whole 
place ;  and  yet  there  was  no  asceticism ;  it  was  the  world, 
and  yet  not  the  world  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 
There  was  the  mother,  Madame  Fliedner,  the  pastor's 
wife,  mother  of  his  large  family,  laying  no  claim  to  the 
dignity  of  "Lady  Superior,"  but  a  plain  Christian  wom- 
an, who  had  not  found  the  duties  of  wife  and  mother  in- 
compatible with  spiritual  cares,  when  both  alike  were  ex- 
ercised under  one  and  the  same  guide  and  director,  her 
husband.  There  were  the  young  deaconesses  with  their 
intelligent  animated  countenances,  no  mere  instruments 
yielding  a  blind  and  passive  obedience,  but  voluntary 
and  enlightened  agents,  obeying,  on  conviction,  an  in- 
ward principle." 

In  1849  Miss  Nightingale  enrolled  herself  as  a  volun- 
tary nurse  in  this  establishment,  and  thus  became  prac- 
tically acquainted  with  the  various  forms  of  disease  and 
a  good  system  of  nursing.  It  seems  needless  to  re- 
capitulate here  what  the  world  owes  to  her  for  her  work 
during  the  Crimean  war.  How  she  sped  is  a  matter  of 
universal  knowledge.  Upon  her  return  to  England  a 
grateful  English  public  placed  at  her  disposal  contri- 
butions to  the  amount  of  £50,000.  With  this  fund  she 
founded  the  Nightingale  Training  School  for  Nurses,  the 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION  243 

first  of  its  kind,  so  soon  to  be  duplicated  in  the  United 
Kingdom  and  thence  throughout  the  world.  In  1873  Sis- 
ter Helen,  a  Nightingale  Sister  or  Trained  Nurse,  came 
over  to  America  and  started  the  New  York  Training 
School  for  Nurses  in  connection  with  Bellevue  Hospital, 
in  the  City  of  New  York.  Somewhat  later  in  the  same 
year  similar  schools  were  opened  in  New  Haven  and 
Boston.  The  conditions  existing  in  hospitals  at  that  time 
in  this  country  were  very  little,  if  at  all,  better  than 
those  abroad,  and  one  would  have  supposed  that  a  re- 
spectable, intelligent  class  of  women,  offering  themselves 
for  hospital  work,  would  have  been  received  with  open 
arms.  Unfortunately,  such  was  not  the  case.  Months  or 
years  of  hard  physical  and  mental  work,  before  she  could 
obtain  her  certificate,  represented  but  a  small  part  of  the 
struggle  through  which,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  or 
even  less,  a  woman  had  to  pass  before  she  could  estab- 
lish her  claim  to  share  in  hospital  work  as  a  trained 
nurse.  It  was  a  long  while,  indeed,  before  even  the 
medical  profession  as  a  body  regarded  her  with  favor. 
But  after  physicians  had  once  begun  to  realize  that  with 
trained  nursing  it  was  possible  to  have  their  orders  in- 
telligently carried  out,  that  chaos  and  dirt  gave  way  to 
order  and  cleanliness,  that  the  percentage  of  deaths  de- 
creased and  of  recoveries  increased;  lastly,  when  once 
for  all  they  learned  to  recognize  the  fact  that  their  own 
particular  province  was  in  no  danger  of  invasion,  they 
finally  accorded  to  the  trained  nurse  her  professional 
recognition. 

The  history  of  the  education  of  the  people  at  large 
upon  this  point  forms  an  interesting  chapter  in  sociology. 
The  care— or  perhaps  we  might  say  the  criminal  negli- 
gence— accorded  to  poor  patients  in  hospitals  in  days 
gone  by  had  made  the  name  "hospital"  a  by-word  and 
a  term  of  reproach,  which  is  not  yet  wholly  eradicated 
from  the  minds  of  the  ignorant  and  even  of  those  who 
should  be  better  informed.  The  prevailing  type  of  at- 
tendants upon  the  sick  in  the  early  years  of  the  century 
had  accustomed  people  to  regard  paid  nurses  as  self- 


244  THE  INN  OF  REST 

seeking  menials,  engaged  in  something  far  lower  than 
domestic  work,  and  whose  only  object  was  to  benefit 
by  other's  misfortunes  at  the  least  expenditure  of  care 
and  trouble  on  their  own  part.  It  is  true  that  in  all  ages 
we  have  had  noble  women  who  devoted  their  whole  life 
to  their  religion  and  to  the  care  of  the  sick,  and  hence 
there  has  existed  at  all  times  another  class  of  nurses, 
many  of  noble  birth,  all  of  noble  souls,  whose  memory 
must  ever  be  held  in  respect  and  honor.  But  here  again 
too  often  the  will  was  taken  for  the  deed.  It  was  ap- 
parently only  necessary  to  wish  to  take  proper  care  of  the 
sick  and  to  proceed  at  once  to  do  so.  Hence  resulted  a 
sad  waste  of  much  well-meant  energy  and  too  little  prog- 
ress so  far  as  the  welfare  of  the  sick  was  concerned.  But 
the  views  of  the  people  were  gradually  growing  broader. 
From  regarding  nursing  the  sick  as  an  occupation  for 
paid  menials,  or  as  a  service  of  sacrifice  and  self-abnega- 
tion, to  be  shrouded  in  the  garments  of  a  religious  sister- 
hood, they  gradually  reached  the  idea  that  widows  and 
unmarried  women  of  a  certain  age  and  experience  might 
also  find  here  a  field  of  work.  But  to  a  public,  educated 
up  to  even  this  pitch,  it  still  came  as  a  shock  to  find  re- 
spectable women — young  and  unmarried — willing  to  give 
up  two  years  of  their  life  in  a  hospital  to  learn  how  to 
take  care  of  the  sick  and  to  claim  their  right  to  establish 
the  profession  of  trained  nursing.  Nevertheless,  despite 
prejudices,  institution?  for  instruction  in  nursing  were 
established  which  were  educational  as  well  as  humanitar- 
ian in  their  principles. 

Unfortunately  at  first  the  number  of  competent  women 
who  were  willing  to  enter  the  training  schools  was  some- 
what limited  and  these  institutions  were,  therefore, 
obliged  to  offer  a  certain  amount  of  monetary  induce- 
ment in  order  to  secure  pupils  in  sufficient  numbers.  This 
fact  is  much  to  be  regretted,  since  it  has  emphasized  the 
commercial  and  the  manual  side  at  the  expense  of  the 
educational  standpoint  of  such  schools. 

The  movement,  once  started,  spread  with  great  rapid- 
ity, schools  grew  up  on  all  sides,  and  as  might  have  been 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION  245 

expected,  the  competition  for  pupils  was  for  a  time  so 
great  that  educational  requirements  for  admission  were 
kept  unduly  low.  This  feature  has  proved  detrimental 
to  the  best  interests  of  nursing  in  many  ways.  For  the 
average  nurse  a  preliminary  education  little  beyond  that 
furnished  by  the  public  schools  has  been  demanded.  It 
is  true  that  in  the  better  schools  preference  is  given  to 
applicants  of  superior  education  and  cultivation  and  that 
not  a  few  trained  nurses  are  women  of  considerable  at- 
tainments. But  this  low  standard  of  requirement  has 
increased  the  tendency  of  the  public  to  regard  the  skill 
of  the  trained  nurse  as  largely  mechanical  and  her  work 
as  almost  wholly  manual,  affording  but  little  scope  for 
a  trained  intellect.  Again,  it  must  be  confessed  that 
much  has  been  done  to  justify  this  opinion  by  the  appal- 
lingly long  hours  of  practical  work  which  have  been  and 
are  still  required,  in  too  many  hospitals,  of  the  pupil 
nurse.  Certainly,  after  nine  or  sometimes  twelve  or  thir- 
teen hours  spent  in  the  wards,  little  time  and  still  less 
brain  power  is  left  for  theoretical  study,  and  even  to  the 
most  intelligent  and  earnest  mind  fatigue  is  almost  the 
only  sensation  left. 

The  question  as  to  the  social  status  of  the  trained 
nurse  is  also  of  interest.  At  one  time  it  required  not  a 
little  moral  courage  on  the  part  of  a  refined  woman  to 
take  up  nursing.  Her  position  had  to  be  maintained  day 
and  night  under  the  constant,  vigilant,  and  not  always 
friendly,  criticism  of  the  free  ward  patients,  whose  ver- 
dict, like  that  of  the  gallery  gods  judging  an  artist  on  the 
stage,  carried  weight  not  only  in  the  hospital,  but  also 
in  the  slums  of  the  city  whence  the  majority  of  her  pa- 
tients were  drawn.  For  it  is  the  poorest  patients  who 
decide  in  part  whether  others  will  avail  themselves  of 
the  benefits  of  the  hospital ;  and  every  nurse  should  feel 
that  with  her  rests  to  a  great  extent  the  power  of  such 
institutions  to  do  the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  num- 
ber. Again,  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  young  house 
physician  could  bring  himself  to  understand  that  the 
trained  nurse  was  there  as  his  assistant  and  not  as  his 


246  THE  INN  OF  REST 

servant.  In  private  families,  outside  the  sick  room,  it 
was  hard  to  know  what  to  do  with  her.  She  was  neither 
for  the  kitchen  nor  for  the  drawing-room — neither  fish, 
flesh,  nor  fowl — and  she  was  often  placed  in  a  position 
that  required  from  her  not  only  tact  but  a  large  amount 
of  forbearance.  But  time  has  helped  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion and  a  trained  nurse's  position  now  is  largely  what 
she  herself  makes  it.  Occasionally,  one  still  notices  a 
trace  of  the  old  prejudice  and  of  the  feeling  that  a  hos- 
pital nurse  is  not  on  an  equality  with  other  intelligent  and 
refined  women.  Occasionally  we  still  find  families  who 
consider  it  below  their  dignity  that  one  of  their  mem- 
bers should  enter  a  training  school  for  nurses.  Fortun- 
ately, however,  this  is  largely  a  matter  of  education  and 
I  know  by  personal  experience  of  many  fathers  and  moth- 
ers, who,  when  once  they  had  learned  to  appreciate  the 
aims  and  duties  of  the  trained  nurse,  were  completely 
won  over  and  encouraged  their  daughters  when  the  lat- 
ter wished  to  enter  upon  such  a  career. 

Briefly,  then,  these  are  some  of  the  stages  through 
which  the  trained  nurse  has  passed  in  the  public  estima- 
tion since  she  came  into  existence,  until  in  these  last 
days  ot  the  century,  with  its  scientific  medicine  and  mod- 
ern hospitals,  she  is  recognized  as  belonging  to  a  pro- 
fession, which  has  for  its  sphere  the  care  of  the  sick,  her 
work  supplementing,  not  competing  with,  that  of  the 
scientific  physician  and  surgeon. 

But  nurses  are  still  reaching  out  towards  ideals  which 
we  trust  may  be  realized  in  the  fullness  of  time.  In 
speaking  of  nursing  as  a  profession  for  women,  I  have 
used  the  term  advisedly.  Some  prefer  the  term  "voca- 
tion," or  the  Anglo-Saxon  word,  "calling."  The  last,  if 
made  to  bear  the  significance  of  a  direct  call  from  God  to 
a  consecrated  service,  would  rather  suggest,  on  first 
thought,  a  sisterhood  with  its  religious  restrictions ;  and 
surely  "profession"  means  all  that  "vocation"  does  and 
more.  The  work  of  the  clergy,  the  lawyer,  and  the  physi- 
cian is  spoken  of  as  "a  profession" ;  the  term  implies  more 
responsibility,  more  serious  duty,  a  higher  skill  and  an  em- 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION  247 

ployment  needing  an  education  more  thorough  than  that 
required  in  some  other  vocations  of  life.  Every  day  these 
qualities  are  more  and  more  being  demanded  of  the 
trained  nurse  by  modern  physicians  and  by  exacting 
laity;  and  whether  we  recognize  it  or  not,  the  fact  re- 
mains that  in  so  far  as  we  fall  short  of  meeting  these  re- 
quirements, in  just  such  proportions  are  we  found  fault 
with  and  severely  criticized. 

Nor  are  the  criticisms  that  we  so  often  hear  always 
unjust,  for  in  glancing  over  the  list  of  our  attainments 
and  summing  them  up  there  will  be  found  room  for  much 
improvement.  I  think  even  the  best  among  us  are  ready 
to  acknowledge  our  imperfections,  and  the  steady  hard 
work  that  has  been  put  into  the  past  ten  years  in  efforts 
towards  improvements,  shows  a  healthy  dissatisfaction 
and  augurs  well  for  the  betterment  of  the  future  nurse. 
We  cannot  stand  still;  in  the  future  the  public,  both 
medical  men  and  the  laity,  will  be  ever  demanding  a  still 
more  efficient  nursing,  more  uniformity,  and  a  higher 
order  of  women  to  meet  these  requirements.  To  be  sure 
there  are  still  to  be  found  among  the  very  conservative 
those  who  cannot  become  accustomed  to  the  new  order 
of  things  and  who  are  not  yet  prepared  to  find  the  re- 
fined educated  woman  in  the  trained  nurse;  who  do  not 
comprehend  the  real  difference  between  nursing  as  an 
occupation  and  as  a  profession.  Their  attitude  would 
seem  to  be  mainly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  still  labor 
under  the  impression  that  nursing  consists  chiefly  in 
manual  labor  and  that  there  is  no  necessity  or  scope  af- 
forded by  it  for  a  high  degree  of  education.  There  are 
also  those  who  proclaim  that  the  old-fashioned  nurse  is 
good  enough  for  them  and  maintain  that  nursing  has  not 
the  first  elements  of  a  profession ;  they  hold  that  the  du- 
ties required  of  a  nurse  are  very  simple,  that  her  educa- 
tion is  complete  when  she  has  learned  to  make  a  bed  and 
wash  the  patient,  take  the  temperature  and  prepare  the 
food,  in  fact  to  perform  the  ordinary  duties  for  which  any 
of  the  old-fashioned  nurses  were  qualified.  To  distin- 
guish between  this  popular  idea  of  the  care  of  the  sick 


248  THE  INN  OF  REST 

and  to  justify  us  in  our  pretensions  to  the  rank  of  a  pro- 
fession we  must  consider  the  demands  made  by  scien- 
tific medicine  of  to-day.  Its  methods  are  as  different 
from  those  of  the  old-time  practice  as  are  those  of  mod- 
ern nursing  from  the  old-time  nursing.  Not  so  long  ago 
neither  medicine  nor  nursing  were  scientific  in  character. 
But  the  evolution  of  the  one  created  a  necessity  for  the 
other.  Modern  medicine  requires  a  thorough  scientific 
training,  and  modern  methods  of  treatment  require  that 
the  work  of  the  physician  be  supplemented  by  the  con- 
stant and  intelligent  service  supplied  by  the  trained  nurse, 
who  has  now  her  allotted  part  to  perform  in  helping  to 
carry  cases  of  grave  sickness  to  a  successful  termination. 
Thus,  for  example,  it  requires  more  than  mere  mechani- 
cal skill  on  the  part  of  a  nurse  to  follow  the  preparations 
for  an  aseptic  operation,  full  of  significance,  as  it  is,  in 
every  detail,  and  the  saying  that  "dust  is  danger"  must 
have  a  bacteriologically  practical  meaning  for  her.  At 
the  present  day,  in  all  branches  of  surgery,  the  selection 
of  a  suitable  operating-room  nurse  is  no  less  important 
than  that  of  any  of  the  surgeon's  staff.  Nor  can  just 
any  one  appreciate -the  full  meaning  of  the  physician 
when  he  says  "the  nursing  will  be  half  the  battle  in  this 
case."  Even  the  general  public  has  come  to  recognize 
the  important  part  that  skilled  nursing  plays  in  such  dis- 
eases as  typhoid  fever,  pneumonia,  and  other  forms  of  in- 
fectious disorders,  because  of  the  constant  and  intelli- 
gent care  that  must  be  given  such  patients. 

To  acquire  not  only  the  practical  but  also  the  theoreti- 
cal groundwork  of  her  profession,  a  women  must  de- 
vote three  of  the  best  years  of  her  life  to  special  prepa- 
ration and  to  obtaining  a  thorough  understanding  of 
the  principles  of  nursing.  Nothing  can  take  the  place 
of  this  training.  It  means  all  the  difference  that  lies 
between  the  skilled  practiced  worker  and  the  amateur. 
Nursing  has  thus  become  a  matter  of  scientific  discipline 
and  is  a  therapeutic  agent  of  ever  increasing  importance. 
It  is  this  education  of  the  intelligence  that  constitutes  the 
main  difference  between  the  trained  nurse  of  to-day  and 


NURSING  AS  A  PROFESSION  249 

the  so-called  nurse  of  former  days,  and  that  has  rendered 
nursing  worthy  to  rank  as  a  department  in  scientific 
medicine. 

To  be  sure  there  is  the  side  to  nursing  so  often  spoken 
of  as  menial,  but  nothing  dominated  by  the  mind,  and 
dignified  by  the  way  in  which  it  is  done,  can  be  deroga- 
tory ;  nor  need  the  cultured  and  trained  woman,  when  the 
emergency  arises,  shrink  from  unpleasant  tasks.  The 
spirit  in  which  she  does  her  work  makes  all  the  difference. 
Invested  as  she  should  be  with  the  dignity  of  her  profes- 
sion and  the  cloak  of  love  for  suffering  humanity,  she 
can  ennoble  anything  her  hand  may  be  called  upon  to  do, 
and  for  work  done  in  this  spirit  there  will  ever  come  to 
her  a  recompense  far  outweighing  that  of  silver  and  gold. 

The  trained  nurse,  then,  is  no  longer  to  be  regarded 
as  a  better  trained,  more  useful,  higher  class  servant,  but 
as  one  who  has  knowledge  and  is  worthy  of  respect,  con- 
sideration and  due  recompense — in  a  certain  degree  a 
member  of  a  profession.  She  is  also  essentially  an  in- 
structor; part  of  her  duties  have  to  do  with  the  pre- 
vention of  disease  and  sickness,  as  well  as  the  relief  of 
suffering  humanity.  In  district  nursing  we  are  con- 
fronted with  conditions  which  require  the  highest  order 
of  work,  but  the  actual  nursing  of  the  patient  is  one  of 
the  least  of  the  duties  which  the  nurse  is  called  upon  to 
perform  for  the  class  of  people  with  whom  she  meets.  To 
this  branch  of  our  work  no  more  appropriate  name  can 
be  given  than  "Instructive  Nursing,"  for  educational  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  word  it  should  be. 

These  are  some  of  the  essentials  in  nursing  by  which 
it  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  profession,  but  there  still 
remains  much  to  be  desired,  much  to  work  for,  in  order 
to  add  to  its  dignity  and  usefulness.  As  the  standard  of 
education  and  requirements  becomes  of  a  higher  char- 
acter and  the  training  more  efficient,  the  trained  nurse 
will  draw  nearer  to  science  and  its  demands  and  take  a 
greater  share  as  a  social  factor  in  solving  the  world's 
needs. 

But  there  is  another  side  to  nursing — the  ethical — 


250  THE  INN  OF  REST 

without  which  all  the  work  accomplished  would  be  dead 
and  spiritless,  and  which  is  the  antidote  for  a  too  pro- 
nounced professional  attitude.  From  this  standpoint 
the  nurse's  work  is  a  ministry ;  it  should  represent  a  con- 
secrated service,  performed  in  the  spirit  of  Christ,  who 
made  himself  of  no  account  but  went  about  doing  good. 
The  woman  who  fails  to  bring  this  spirit  into  her  nursing 
misses  the  pearl  of  greatest  value  that  is  to  be  found  in 
it.  Nor  do  such  materialists  injure  themselves  alone,  for 
they  are  the  ones  who  bring  upon  our  profession  the  criti- 
cism, so  often  heard,  that  the  life  is  apt  to  make  a  woman 
hard,  cold  and  mercenary.  The  scientific  and  educational 
side  is  important  and  should  certainly  receive  its  due  con- 
sideration, but  none  the  less  should  each  nurse  see  to  it 
that  the  spirit  of  love  for  the  work's  sake  is  fostered  and 
developed,  in  order  that  we  may  have  a  professional 
code  of  ethics  of  an  eminently  practical  and  helping 
nature. 

Such,  then,  are  some  of  the  responsibilities  and  priv- 
ileges that  each  graduate  assumes.  A  proper  concep- 
tion of  our  work  carries  with  it  the  obligation  that  each 
individual  nurse,  by  her  actions  and  by  her  personal 
character,  should  do  her  part  to  maintain  its  dignity  un- 
tarnished. To  bring  to  it  any  less  than  the  very  best  that 
is  in  us  will  cause  it  to  sink  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  and 
bring  discredit  both  upon  it  and  upon  us.  Nothing  less 
than  this  individual  high  standard  and  interest  will  suf- 
fice, if  we,  as  trained  nurses,  hope  to  finally  evolve  an 
organization  worthy  in  all  respects  to  be  ranked  as  a 
profession. 


THE  INN  O 

. 
*^d  *pkrtk*e»  and  which  is 

jfetisional    attitude.     From    this 
;*iun»e's  work  is  <•.  y;  it  should  represen 

,  performed  in  the  spirit  of  Christ, 
is?H'  of  DO  account  but  went  about  doing  g 
tvoman  who  fails  to  bring  this  spirit  into  her  nursing 
•;s  the  pearl  of  greatest  value  that  is  to  be  found  in 
it.    Nor  do  such  materialists  injure  themselves  alone,  for 
they  are  the  ones  who  bring  upon  our  profession -the  criti- 
cism, so  often  heard,  that  the  life  is  apt  to  make  a  woman 
hard,  cold  and  mercenary.    The  scientific  and  educational 
side  is  important  and  should  certainly  receive  its  due  con- 
sideration, but  none  the  less  should  each  nurse  see  to  it 
that  the  spirit  of  love  for  the  work's  sake  is  fostered  and 
developed,  in  order  that  we   may  have  a  professional 
code  of  ethics  of  an  eminently  practical  and  helping 
nature. 

Such,  then,  are  some  of  the  responsibilities  and  priv- 
ileges that  each  graduate  assumes.  ^  proper  concep- 
tion of  our  work  carf$ei^$iti(3£  tHe4&%ation  that  each 
individual  nurse/  by  her  actions  and  by  her  personal 
character,  should  do  her  part  to  maintain  its  dignity  un- 
tarnished. To  bring  to  it  any  less  than  the  very  best  that 
is  in  us  will  cause  it  to  sink  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  and 
bring  discredit  both  upon  it  and  upon  us.  Nothing  less 
than  this  individual  high  standard  and  interest  will  suf- 
fice, if  we,  as  trained  nurses,  hope  to  finally  evolve  an 
organization  worthy  in  all  respects  to  be  ranked  as  a 
profession. 


THE  RED  CROSS  NURSE 

The  praises  of  the  admirals  are  ringing  everywhere; 

The  plaudits  of  the  generals  are  singing  in  the  air; 

The  men  who  sailed  to  sink  their  lives  within  the  Merrimac 

(So  dauntless  they, that  even  death  was  fearful  to  attack!) 

The  hard  marines  whose  tactics  knew  no  signal  for  retreat, 

In  the  rain  of  Mauser  bullets  and  the  drench  of  tropic  heat, 

The  rough  and  ready  riders  in  their  resolute  advance, 

All  make  our  daily  records  a  continuous  romance. 

We  cry  them  in  our  stories;  we  chant  them  in  our  verse, 

But  let  us  sing  a  stanza  for  the  Red  Cross  army  nurse. 

She  is  in  the  foremost  battle,  she  is  in  the  rearmost  tents, 
She  wears  no  weapon  of  attack,  no  armor  of  defense, 
She  is  braver  than  the  bravest,  she  is  truer  than  the  true. 
She  asks  not  if  the  soldier  struck  for  red  and  white  and  blue; 
She  asks  not  if  he  fell  beneath  the  yellow  and  the  red; 
She  is  mother  to  the  wounded,  she  is  sister  to  the  dead. 
The  victor's  cheers  ring  in  her  ears,  but  these  she  does  not  heed; 
The  victim's  moans  and  dying  groans  are  given  as  her  meed, 
And  many  a  suffering  hero  chokes  his  blind  and  sullen  curse 
To  smooth  it  to  a  blessing  for  the  Red  Cross  army  nurse. 

Work  on,  O  noble  army,  and  the  crown  of  crowns  be  yours, 

Not  always  shall  destruction  be  the  glory  which  endures: 

It  is  coming;  it  is  coming;  you  are  helping  on  the  day 

When  we  learn  the  nobler  action  is  to  succor,  not  to  slay; 

It  is  coming;  it  is  coming;  you  are  helping  it  along, 

When  we  know  the  feeblest  nation  is  as  potent  as  the  strong; 

It  is  coming;  it  is  coming!  you  are  bringing  it  to  pass, 

When  the  ships  have  shed  their  armor  and  the  fortresses  are 

glass; 

But  in  the  stormy  waiting  till  the  armaments  disperse, 
Our  blessings  on  the  flower  of  war — the  Red  Cross  army  nurse ! 

J.  E.  V.  COOM 


THE  HUMORS  OF  HOSPITAL  LIFE 


THE  HUMORS  OF  HOSPITAL  LIFE. 

|F  ANY  class  of  human  beings  see  human  nature  as 
it  really  it — see  their  fellow  men  and  women  at 
their  best  and  at  their  worst,  without  the  varnish 
of  conventionality — surely  hospital  nurses  have 
unrivaled  opportunities  for  this  study,  though  most  of 
them  are  too  busy  and  too  tired  to  record  their  impres- 
sions. 

After  twelve  years'  experience  with  patients  of  every 
grade,  I  can  fully  confirm  all  that  is  said  by  the  writer  of 
"Clerical  Life"  about  the  callousness  of  the  poorer  classes 
with  regard  to  sickness  and  death.  Kind  and  helpful  to 
each  other  they  undoubtedly  are,  but  their  feelings  are 
blunted,  possibly  by  great  familiarity  and  close  contact 
with  every  form  of  suffering  and  disease.  The  following 
stories  illustrate  this  condition. 

A  hospital  sister  summoned  the  wife  of  one  of  her  pa- 
tients into  her  private  room,  and  began  to  tell  the  woman 
gently  that  the  doctors  thought  very  badly  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"Well,  Miss,  that's  jest  wot  I  sez  to  'im  lawst  visitin* 
day.  'Tom,'  I  sez,  'I  think  you're  breakin'  up,'  I  sez.  'But 
we'd  miss  yer  wages  of  a  Saturday,'  I  sez,  'if  so  be  as  it 
pleased  the  Lord  to  taike  yer.' " 

Another  woman,  summoned  to  see  her  dying  husband, 
who  had  met  with  a  street  accident,  showed  every  sign  of 
grief.  She  threw  herself  on  the  floor  and  howled  at  the 
top  of  her  voice  as  the  man  died.  Three  days  afterward 
she  arrived  in  the  ward  arrayed  in  the  deepest  widow's 
weeds. 

"Please,  I've  come  for  pore  Walter's  clothes.  The 
Lord's  took  'im,  but  I  'ope,  please  God,  as  I'll  soon  find 
another." 

The  Lowland  Scottish  peasant  has  also  an  extremely 


256  THE  INN  OF  REST 

matter-of-fact  way  of  speaking  about  her  relatives'  and 
friends'  deaths.  A  good  woman  who  had  lost  her  aunt 
remarked  to  a  sympathizing  visitor,  "Eh,  yes,  mem, 
aunty's  deid.  But  she  was  very  auld  and  frail.  She's 
far  better  awa'  and  far  haapier  in  glory,  and  I  got  a  hun- 
ner  pounds  o'  a  legacy." 

Another  woman  said,  apropos  of  her  husband's  death, 
"Deed  aye,  Tom's  deid.  The  wee-est  thing  pits  me  aboot, 
ye  ken." 

And  a  servant,  who  had  been  many  years  in  one  family, 
lost  her  only  sister.  She  was  allowed  to  go  to  superin- 
tend the  funeral  arrangements,  and  returned  in  the  even- 
ing. "Well,  Mary,"  said  her  mistress,  "this  has  been  a 
sad  day  for  you,  losing  your  poor  sister?"  Said  Mary, 
"Me,  ah  was  glad  tae  git  her  oot  o'  the  hoose,  an'  a'  the 
windies  opened." 

In  a  hospital  for  soldiers'  wives  in  India,  a  poor  woman 
was  about  to  be  invalided  home.  A  lady  got  her  some 
warm  clothing  for  the  voyage.  Unfortunately,  the  pa- 
tient died  before  she  could  be  got  away.  The  matron, 
anxious  to  improve  the  occasion,  said  to  the  lady  who 
had  provided  the  clothes,  "Ah,  well,  pore  soul.  She've 
gorn  w'ere  she  won't  never  want  no  more  warm  cloth- 
ing!" 

The  hero  of  the  following  story,  however,  did  not  speak 
of  his  approaching  end  in  an  edifying  manner: 

A  poor  little  street  Arab  was  brought  into  hospital  by 
the  police.  He  had  been  run  over  by  an  omnibus,  and 
was  badly  injured.  The  chaplain  was  sent  for,  as  it  was 
thought  improbable  that  the  boy  would  live  many  hours. 
With  little  tact  the  chaplain  began  the  interview  thus: 
"My  -boy,  the  doctors  think  you  are  very  much  hurt. 
Have  you  been  a  good  little  boy?" 

Boy  (much  bored). — You  git  aout! 

Chaplain  (shocked). — But  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  a 
good  little  boy,  and  you  know  you  may  perhaps  be  going 
to  die. 

Boy   (anxious  to   end  interview). — Well,   t'aint  none 


THE  HUMORS  OF  HOSPITAL  LIFE  257 

o'  your  business  any'ow.  Wot's  death  got  to  do  with 
you?  'Ave  you  got  a  pal  in  the  coffin  line? 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  relate  that  this  boy  finally 
recovered. 

Several  stories  are  told  about  hospital  chaplains.  No 
doubt  many  earnest  men  are  to  be  found,  who  fill  this 
difficult  position  with  comfort  to  their  sick  parishioners 
and  honor  to  themselves.  But  there  are  others  who  are 
lamentably  devoid  of  that  most  essential  of  all  virtues, 
the  gift  of  tact. 

Some  medical  students  once  averred  that  the  hospital 
governors,  before  appointing  a  chaplain,  had  advertised 
thus:  "Wanted,  a  parson  of  limited  intellect  and  the 
plainest  possible  appearance,  to  officiate  as  hospital 
chaplain.  Terms  very  moderate."  Certain  it  is  that  the 
gentleman  appointed  performed  his  pastoral  visits  thus: 

"Good-morning,  my  friend.    How  are  you?" 

Patient. — A  little  better,  thank  you,  sir. 

Chaplain  (inspecting  diet  board). — Ah,  I  see.  They 
have  put  you  on  greens.  You  have  much  for  which  to 
thank  your  Heavenly  Father.  Good-morning. 

The  same  chaplain,  when  he  went  to  hold  the  usual 
weekly  service  in  a  ward,  noticed  that  a  certain  bed  was 
empty.  A  good  old  man  had  occupied  the  bed,  and  the 
chaplain  somewhat  prematurely  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  patient  had  died  since  his  previous  visit. 
So  he  gave  an  address  on  the  uncertainty  of  life,  and 
wound  up  his  remarks  thus:  "God  grant,  dear  friends, 
that  we  may  all  go  whither  this  our  brother  has  gone," 
pointing  to  the  empty  bed.  Unfortunately  "this  our 
brother"  had  been  removed  to  the  erysipelas  ward  that 
morning,  as  all  the  other  patients  knew. 

But  having  illustrated  the  intercourse  between  pa- 
tient and  chaplain,  let  us  look  at  the  attitude  of  the  pa- 
tient to  his  doctor.  As  a  rule,  the  patient  looks  up  to 
his  medical  attendant,  especially  to  the  visiting  surgeon 
or  physician,  with  implicit  confidence  and  a  good  deal 
of  wholesome  awe  and  reverence. 

His  anxiety  to  help  the  doctor  in  every  way  is  some- 


258  THE  INN  OF  REST 

times  unintentionally  comic.  A  senior  surgeon  was  lec- 
turing to  a  class  of  students  on  different  appearances  of 
the  teeth.  "Here,  gentlemen,  in  these  two  teeth  we 
have  well-marked  symptoms  of "  Patient  (interrupt- 
ing in  a  deprecating  manner),  "But  please,  sir,  them  two's 
false  'uns." 

Now  and  then  the  doctor  is  believed  to  be  almost  om- 
niscient. A  patient  in  a  military  hospital  was  constantly 
getting  into  hot  water  because  he  smuggled  food  into 
the  wards.  One  morning  his  medical  officer  was  about 
to  examine  his  throat  with  a  laryngoscope.  Seeing  the 
little  mirror  all  ready  for  use,  the  man's  chum  whispered 
an  anxious  warning  from  the  adjoining  bed.  "I  say, 
Bill,  you'd  best  'ave  a  care.  'Ee  moight  'appen  to  see 
wot  yer  'ad  for  supper  lawst  noight." 

The  dressers  in  a  surgical  ward  also  come  in  for  a 
share  of  admiration.  Even  after  a  most  painful  dressing, 
a  small  street  boy  was  heard  to  say  in  tones  of  satisfac- 
tion, "Ah!  them's  the  blokes  as  makes  a  pore  young 
man  like  me  sit  up.  They  does  know  'ow  to  do  it." 

On  recovery  the  patient's  gratitude  to  the  doctor  some- 
times overflows  in  speeches  like  the  following  remark 
made  by  a  poor  woman  after  a  long  illness.  "I  wouldn't 
never  'ave  got  over  my  lawst  illness,  if  it  'adn't  bin  for 
Surgeon-Captain  Jones  and  the  Lord." 

The  subject  of  gratitude  affords  some  sharp  contrasts 
between  the  feelings  of  military  and  civilian  patients. 
The  military  patient  too  often  looks  upon  his  nurses  as 
"them  gals  wot  is  paid  to  wait  on  us."  The  best  efforts 
of  his  nurses  to  provide  him  with  a  festive  Christmas  tea 
were  received  on  one  occasion  with  solemn  silence  at  the 
time,  and  next  day  with  the  crushing  remark,  "That  theer 
tea  party  of  yourn  'ave  upset  moy  inside." 

The  civilian  patient  is  much  more  effusive,  as  may  be 
gathered  from  the  speech  of  an  old  man  to  a  somewhat 
starched  and  proper  probationer  (the  daughter  of  a 
bishop),  who  was  cleaning  some  glasses  near  his  bed. 
"Wen  I  gits  out  o'  'ere,  my  dear,  I  don't  mind  if  I  finds 
yer  a  nice  comfortable  sittivation  as  bar-maid,  down 


THE  HUMORS  OF  HOSPITAL  LIFE  259 

'Ackney  way.    You  knows  'ow  to  clean  glass,  an  'd  get 
better  money,  anyhow." 

A  quite  touching  farewell  was  said  by  another  old  man 
to  his  nurse  in  these  words :  "You've  bin  a  good  gal  to  me, 
Nuss,  a  rare  good  gal.  I  'ope  as  the  Lord'll  reward  yer, 
but  there,  we  never  know  1" 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

Crittenden  Marriott 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL. 

|HE  man  sitting  in  the  darkened  room  at  the  hos- 
pital raised  his  bandaged  eyes  as  the  nurse  en- 
tered. The  month  that  he  had  been  there  had  not 
served  to  change  the  habit  of  sight  fixed  by  all  the 
years  that  had  gone  before. 

"It's  for  to-night,  isn't  it,  Miss  Lee?"  he  cried,  recog- 
nizing her  step ;  "to-night  I'll  get  rid  of  these  confounded 
bandages  and  see  the  light  of  day  once  more.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  how  this  month  has  dragged.  It's  for  to- 
night, isn't  it  ?" 

"I  believe  so,"  returned  the  nurse  gently.  "But  of 
course  the  doctor  will  have  to  decide.  He'll  be  here 
soon." 

"Gad!  How  glad  I'll  be  to  see  once  more!"  cried  the 
man.  "I  never  could  have  stood  it  even  for  a  month  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  you.  You've  been  an  angel  to  me." 

The  nurse  blushed  softly  and  cast  a  very  tender  look 
at  the  man.  She  answered  merrily,  "All  the  nurses  here 
would  have  been  the  same.  Nine  patients  out  of  ten 
think  we  are  angels  while  they  are  in  the  hospital.  They 
change  their  minds  afterwards." 

"I  never  shall.  Do  you  know,  after  all,  despite  all  the 
pain  and  anxiety,  I  am  glad  this  thing  happened." 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  has  enabled  me  to  know  you.  Oh,  of 
course,  I  have  known  you  to  speak  to  for  months,  and 
by  sight  for  years,  but  that  isn't  knowing  how  tender, 
how  sweet,  how  long  suffering  you  could  be.  Oh,  Miss 
Lee — Gertrude " 

"Hush!  The  doctor  said  you  must  keep  cool,  you 
know.  Excitement  might  injure  your  eyes." 

The  man  sank  back  in  his  chair.  "True,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  forgot  that  I  haven't  any  right  to  speak  now ; 


264  THE  INN  OF  REST 

I  forgot  that  the  result  of  this  operation  isn't  absolutely 
certain  and  that  I  may  be  blind — good  God!  blind — and 
that,  in  any  case,  I  must  mend  my  fortunes  before  I — 
there,  is  that  the  doctor  coming?" 

The  nurse  glanced  out  of  the  open  door  into  the  hall. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "he's  just  down  the  corridor  a-ways. 
You're  not  going  back  to  your  old  position  right  away, 
are  you,  Mr.  Scott?  You  oughtn't  to  try  your  eyes  for 
a  year  or  so,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  not.  But  needs  must,  you  know,  when  a 
certain  gentleman  drives.  I'll  be  dead  broke  when  I  get 
out  of  here,  and  I'll  have  to  go  to  work.  Ah !  there's  the 
doctor." 

The  doctor  entered  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  talk- 
ing to  the  man.  "Yes,"  he  said,  at  last,  "we'll  take  the 
bandages  off  to-night,  I  think." 

"Thank  God!  And — and  there's  no  doubt  that  every- 
thing will  be  all  right,  is  there,  doctor?" 

"We'll  hope  for  the  best,"  returned  the  doctor  cheerily, 
his  tone  a  very  comfort  in  itself,  although  his  words  were 
not  especially  so.  He  passed  out  of  the  door  hurriedly, 
preventing  further  question,  and  beckoning  to  the  nurse 
as  he  did  so  to  follow  him.  A  few  steps  down  the  cor- 
ridor he  halted. 

"Nurse,"  he  said  with  a  worried  look  on  his  face,  "do 
you  know  whether  your  patient  has  any  relatives 
nearby?" 

"I'm  sure  he  has  not,"  answered  the  girl  readily.  "I've 
talked  with  him  repeatedly  and  learned  all  about  him. 
He  doesn't  seem  to  have  a  relative  in  the  world." 

The  doctor's  face  grew  graver.  "How  is  he  off  for 
money?" 

"He  just  told  me  that  he  would  be  'dead  broke'  when 
he  got  out  of  here.  He  said  he  must  at  once  go  back  to 
work." 

"Back  to  work  at  once !  He'll  be  lucky  if  he  ever  gets 
to  work  again." 

The  nurse  grew  white.  "Why?"  she  gasped.  "I 
thought  the  operation  was  a  certainty." 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL  265 

"A  certainty!  Yes,  it  is  a  certainty,  almost — but  in 
the  wrong  direction.  There  isn't  one  chance  in  a  hun- 
dred that  he'll  ever  see  again." 

With  a  mighty  effort  the  nurse  mastered  her  emotion. 
"But,  doctor,"  she  gasped,  "what  will  become  of  him?" 

"Become  of  him?"  echoed  the  doctor,  irritably.  "Be- 
come of  him?  What  becomes  of  blind  men  who  have  no 
friends  and  no  money?  We'll  keep  him  as  long  as  we 
can,  and  then  I  suppose  he'll  have  to  go  to  the  poor- 
house  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

A  flush  of  anger  succeeded  the  pallor  of  Miss  Lee's  face. 
"Why  have  you  deceived  him?"  she  demanded  indig- 
nantly, with  utter  disregard  of  the  requirements  of  dis- 
cipline. "He  is  sure  that  he  will  get  well.  He  is  building 
on  it  absolutely.  If  he  doesn't " 

The  doctor  looked  curiously  at  the  girl,  then  a  sense  of 
comprehension  came  over  him.  He  sighed;  he  was  an 
old  man,  but  not  a  callous  one.  "If  you  want  him  to  see 
again,  Miss  Lee,"  he  said,  "be  sure  to  keep  him  thinking 
so.  In  that  lies  his  one  chance.  Keep  him  cheerful  at 
all  hazards,  and  possibly " 

The  doctor  turned  away,  and  the  nurse  slowly  retraced 
her  steps  to  Scott's  room.  She  had  known  Henry  Scott 
for  a  year  or  more,  and  had  liked  and  admired  him  from 
the  first.  In  the  month  that  they  had  been  thrown  to- 
gether by  the  accident  that  had  forced  Scott  to  enter  the 
hospital,  this  feeling  had  grown  to  something  stronger 
than  liking.  For  some  days  she  had  known  what  he 
would  say  as  soon  as  he  could  see  again,  and  had  known 
what  she  would  say  in  answer.  In  common  with  the 
rest  of  the  world  around  her  she  had  never  doubted  that 
all  would  be  well  with  his  sight.  Now  came  this  blow. 

Never  to  see  again !  To  go  to  the  poorhouse  and  there 
drag  out  his  days !  Never  !  He  shall  not !  He  shall  not ! 

But  what  could  she  do?  Too  well  she  knew  Scott's 
spirit  to  suppose  that  he  would  accept  anything  from  her ; 
that  he  would  ever  say  the  words  she  longed  to  hear; 
the  words  that  would  give  her  the  right  to  care  for  him ; 
unless  his  sight  was  restored.  She  must  get  that  right 


266  THE  INN  OF  REST 

before  the  bandages  were  removed.  She  would  lead  him 
on  to  speak — but  no,  what  good  would  that  do?  If  he 
were  to  be  really  blind,  she  knew  he  would  repudiate 
the  bargain. 

She  must  marry  him  that  very  day,  before  the  bandages 
were  removed. 

Her  heart  stood  still  at  the  thought.  All  that  was 
womanly  in  her  revolted.  But  then — the  poorhouse! 
Ah !  she  would  be  so  proud  to  work  for  him,  to  care  for 
him.  She  had  no  one  dependent  on  her  and  she  earned 
enough  to  maintain  them  both.  She  must  do  it.  There 
was  no  other  way. 

Her  thoughts  had  traveled  like  lightning.  In  the  few 
steps  between  the  doctor  and  the  door  of  Scott's  room 
she  had  thought  it  all  out.  Steadily  she  entered,  and 
went  close  to  him.  "What  was  it  you  were  saying  a 
moment  ago,  Mr.  Scott?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Saying?"  The  man  puzzled  for  the  instant. 

"About  me?" 

"Oh!"  with  instant  comprehension.  "O  Gertrude,  do 
you  really  want  to  hear  it?"  He  groped  for  her  hand, 
caught  it  and  drew  her  to  him.  "Gertrude,  it  isn't  right 
for  me  to  speak  yet,  but  I  must,  I  must.  Oh,  darling,  I 
love  you  so !  I  love  you  so !  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

The  girl  bowed  her  head  on  his  breast.  "Yes,  yes !"  she 
sobbed,  "more  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"Thank  God !"  The  man  grasped  the  bandages  around 
his  head  and  recklessly  tore  them  off.  "I  must  see  you !" 
he  cried.  "I  must  see  you !  Oh,  Gertrude,  how  beautiful 
you  are !" 

But  the  nurse  flung  up  her  hands  in  horror,  and  strove 
to  cover  his  eyes.  "Oh,  oh,  oh!"  she  wailed.  "Don't! 
You'll  ruin  your  last  chance." 

But  the  man  clasped  her  wrists  and  held  her  from  him. 

"I  see  you !  I  see  you !"    he  cried. 

Neither  noticed  the  doctor  standing  at  the  door,  but 
at  the  last  words  he  advanced  into  the  room.  "You  see, 
do  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  do!" 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL  267 

The  nurse  turned,  clasped  hands.  "Doctor,  doctor!" 
she  cried,  "is  it  a  success?  Will  he  see?" 

"Why  of  course  he  will!"  answered  that  gentleman 
briskly.  "The  operation  has  evidently  been  an  entire 
success." 


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